


Liar, Liar

by fight_knight



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Bullying, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), fr take the bullying tag seriously, teenagers dont need fear gods to torture each other they do it fine on their own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29101992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fight_knight/pseuds/fight_knight
Summary: “I understand,” Mr. Bouchard said slowly, in that sweet syrupy voice, “That you may be having a tough time right now, Michael.”...“It’s so hard, isn’t it? Losing a friend.”-Michael tries to make a fresh start for himself at a new school after his best friend is murdered.And Ryanwasmurdered. Even if Michael is the only one who thinks so.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley
Comments: 23
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me hyperfocusing on Michael for like three months.  
> (Also I have no idea how the English school system works, please just go with me on this one.)
> 
> Highly recommend you mind the tags and the content warnings for each chapter folks. (it gets pretty rough later)  
> I'm hoping to update every two weeks and then get back to my other fic so uhh lets see how well that plan goes!!!
> 
> CW's FOR CHAPTER 1 (may contain spoilers):  
> discussion of mental illness; dismissal/diminishing of mental illness; suggestions of racist/fetishistic motivations when adopting a child; antisemitic comment from a parent towards his adopted child; descriptions of gore; bullying; mention of burn injuries (of the jon sims’ hand variety)

The hand placed on Michael’s shoulder was probably meant to appear reassuring. Projecting goodwill and care so aggressively it was borderline nauseating. Michael could  _ feel  _ how much Harry wanted the school secretary to know just how accommodating of a father figure he was. He shouldn’t have bothered though, the secretary barely passed a glance their way.

Still, Harry always loved the appearance of a healthy family dynamic more than he wanted to work for it.

Harry had the wide stance and the broad shoulders of a man who had been on his college rowing team with the pressed suit of a man who wanted other people to know it. His meaty hand dwarfed Michael’s shoulder, and he was one of the only people that Michael felt small next to, in every possible sense.

A man entered the waiting room, Michael noticed his shiny leather shoes and the spotless cuffs of his trousers and braced himself for the inevitable posturing that Harry was about to get into with this man. Harry stood up at his entrance, still with one hand leashing Michael to the chair. Michael had this theory that Harry hated to be the shortest person in the room.

“Michael Shelley?” The man asked, voice syrupy in a way that crawled down Michael’s spine. Michael kept studying those shoes, the broguing was neat and professional and sort of looked like dozens of tiny eyes staring back at him.

Harry gave Michael a none-too-gentle nudge, containing much of his exasperation that had been building over the past few weeks. Michael looked up. The man with the clean suit and the weird shoes gave him a slow smile that felt over-rehearsed. 

“Go on, Michael.” Harry said, curt and factual.

Michael stood, then. At seventeen years old and an awkward six feet four inches, he would be about equal standing next to Harry. The difference between Michael and Harry though, was that Michael sort of collapsed in on himself habitually, as if he was constantly stooping under a low ceiling. Harry stood like he was about to square off in a wresting match.

The man with the shoes was nearly a foot shorter than both of them, but showed no signs of intimidation, which Michael could tell ruffled Harry’s feathers.

The man addressed Harry then, “Elias Bouchard.” He introduced himself with a handshake, one that Harry probably put too much force in, force that Mr. Bouchard didn’t seem to notice or care about. “You must be Mr. Shelley?”

“Williams.” Harry corrected, and then did not elaborate.

Mr. Bouchard, unbothered by this, glanced back to Michael. “Michael, why don’t you and your father accompany me to my office, we’ll discuss the details of your enrollment.” It was a question, but he spoke it like a statement.

“Harry’s not my dad.” Michael said, and the hand on his shoulder tightened. “He adopted me. I never knew my real dad. You could be my dad, for all I know. Are you my dad?”

“Michael.” Harry cut in sharply.

Mr. Bouchard, for his part, just quirked his lips in faint amusement. “I don’t think so.” He said flatly. Nothing about his gaze changed, but Michael felt it then. Like Mr. Bouchard had Michael on a slide, and was inspecting him under a microscope. 

“I’ll be in the car.” Harry said with finality, and with one last bruising squeeze, moved to the door out of the administration office, checking his pager as he went. He hadn’t even performed the customary ‘ _ I will be leaving first but rest assured that my dick is much bigger than yours’ _ performance that Michael was used to watching. Harry was unnerved by Mr. Bouchard.

Michael was too. But he didn’t have the option of waiting in the car.

Mr. Bouchard didn’t watch Harry go, not like Michael did. So that when Michael looked back, Mr. Bouchard was still staring at him with an uncomfortable, calculating gaze. He smiled that slow smile again. “Shall we?” And he turned to walk down the hallway.

Michael followed, eyes on the ground.

“So, Michael.” Mr. Bouchard’s tone was friendly and polite as he gestured for Michael to take the seat across from his desk. Michael did, keeping his eyes on his hands, on the desk, anything but Mr. Bouchard. “I’d like to be the first to welcome you to the Magnus Institute: School for the Gifted, I am Elias Bouchard, acting head of the Magnus Institute. How did you find your tour?”

Michael shrugged a little, and watched his twitching fingers fumble with the zipper of his hoodie.

Mr. Bouchard’s voice was light and airy as he continued, “Michael, I’d like you to look me in the eye when I’m speaking to you.”

The small edge contained within the friendly tone was what ultimately pulled Michael’s gaze up. Mr. Bouchard smiled that placeholder smile again.

“Good,” He said, “We pride ourselves on educating upstanding young men and women at this institute, ones with good manners and strong moral fibre.”

“I heard a kid got pushed off the roof by another student here.” Michael said, and watched that placeholder smile stiffen on Mr. Bouchard’s face.

Mr. Bouchard sighed, like he didn’t want this brought up. “Yes, Michael Crew.” He said, “That was a bit of a news frenzy wasn’t it?” And then, quieter, “So public, too.” He cleared his throat then, “But not to worry, that situation was cleared up years ago.”

“I heard the kid that Mike Crew pushed broke both his legs.” Michael said. “I heard he’s still in a wheelchair.”

Mr. Bouchard paused, and laced his hands together professionally, and leveled Michael with a look that felt dangerous. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“I understand,” Mr. Bouchard said slowly, in that sweet syrupy voice, “That you may be having a tough time right now, Michael.”

The indignation that rose in Michael at the patronization fizzled as Mr. Bouchard continued.

“It’s so hard, isn’t it? Losing a friend.”

Michael felt the breath in his lungs freeze over slowly. He curved inward, gaze dropping back down to his hands, clutching to the hem of his shirt.

“Oh, Michael.” He heard Mr. Bouchard make his way around the desk to Michael’s side, in his periphery he saw Mr. Bouchard do that strange little half-lean on the desk, faux sympathetic. “What happened to Ryan was such an unfortunate accident. It’s difficult, dealing with something like that at your age.” 

Michael didn’t look up, though Mr. Bouchard didn’t chastise him for it this time. And even though he couldn’t see it, Mr. Bouchard’s gaze felt… hungry.

“It’s especially difficult when you’re entering a new school setting. Hard to be the new fish in the pond, so to speak. But Michael,” and Michael did not like the way Mr. Bouchard said his name, “I promise you that I, and the staff of the Magnus Institute, and certainly many of your peers are here to  _ help _ you through this difficult time.”

Michael wanted Mr. Bouchard to stop talking about this. Michael never wanted to talk about this. He picked the response that he thought might end the conversation quicker.

“Thank you.” He mumbled.

It didn’t work. “And you know, you can always speak to any of the staff members if needs must. This has to be a very isolating experience.” Mr. Bouchard said, turned to look out the window, and sighed wistfully before that unblinking gaze swept back to land on Michael again. “Oh, who knows. Maybe you’ll find some lifelong friends here.”

Michael really didn’t believe that. And he could tell Mr. Bouchard didn’t really care either way.

But blessedly, Mr. Bouchard finally moved on, “Your... adoptive mother was in yesterday, to explain some of your situation.”

Michael resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Kim wasn’t so bad. She was just the kind of person always on a new health kick or some new cleanse. Always with a different flag to wave or cause to defend until she got bored and moved on to the next one. She burned incense in the bathroom and meditated not for the feeling but for the performance of it. She liked feeling spiritually connected, but Michael was pretty sure she clung to her candles and her crystals and her incense because deep down she knew it was all bullshit.

In a lot of ways she was antithetical to Harry. She went on about getting in touch with her ‘feminine aura’ and had more self help books (‘self  _ discovery _ , Michael. We call them self discovery books.’) than could fit on her shelf. Harry was a staunch atheist who believed the only problem with the world was that it wasn’t listening to him more often.

But in a lot of ways, they were exactly alike. Very focused on the  _ presentation _ of it all. The minimalist designer furniture they never used, the social parties they threw for their society friends.

Kimberly and Harry Williams were not ‘rich’ in any real sense of the word. Kim was a stay at home mother and part time ‘life coach’ for the women in her book club. Harry was a moderately successful lawyer.

Kim and Harry were not rich, but had a strange unspoken obsession with  _ appearing _ rich. And that appearance included everything from what stores to shop at, to what neighbourhood they wanted to live in, to whom they limited their social circles.

And, the child they adopted.

Michael had understood the reasons for his adoption in a purely retroactive sense, picking apart the memories with idle boredom in the late hours of the night. There were a couple facts that painted a certain picture.

Harry had always wanted a family - a son, in particular. One to boast about with his friends at the country club about the kinds of connections made and trophies won and colleges that wanted him. 

They had tried for a kid, Kim and Harry, for years together. Nothing ever worked out. It led to a lot of fights.

Harry almost left her, he admitted one night, drunk on his expensive whiskey and boneless in his leather recliner. She was hot back when they were in college together, he informed a then twelve-year-old Michael, who at that point was unsure whether it would be better or worse to leave. But now, Harry had said with a modicum of both confusion and disgust, now she had these weird like, discolouration spots on her thighs. Gross to look at. But a divorce would look bad for his reputation.

He would’ve left her, except she managed to convince him that they should both go see a specialist, and lo and behold that the infertility was coming from Harry’s end, not Kim’s.

Even if Harry were to drop Kim and find another wife, there was no chance of a blood son, or even daughter, coming out of any of his relationships. Harry was devastated by this. 

Kim took it as an opportunity.

Kimberly Williams wanted to adopt not because she particularly wanted to raise a child, but because the thought of giving some poor, hopeless little orphan the opportunity to have a better life would make her look like the selfless saint that she so desperately wanted people to see her as. In her own way, Kim had her own boys at the country club to impress.

Kim had wanted an african kid, or a chinese kid. A kid born into a country where the poverty rates were higher and the skin tones were darker. She wanted it to be clear to everyone just how much better she had made this child’s life. How she had brought them from the storm of an impoverished third-world country and into the gentle wings of civilization, raised them with a proper education, and given them the opportunity to grow far beyond any dismal future they were destined for.

Harry, to put it simply, wanted a white kid. He had arguments for it, as a lawyer, he always had arguments for everything. He was concerned about the quality of the cultural education that he and Kim would be able to provide. He was concerned about being unequipped to help their new child should they face any discrimination or prejudice out in the real world.

They were all very considerate but very obvious smokescreens. Harry wanted a kid who looked like him.

And Kim knew this, and she knew that her dreams of becoming the saintly mother plucking a baby from the cruel arms of fate was directly at odds with Harry’s vision of a good upstanding son he could pass off as his own.

For Harry, the fact that his child had to be adopted was a bug. 

For Kim, it was a feature.

So, Michael was the compromise.

A white kid with a suitably tragic origin, officially adopted into their happy family dynamic just before his eleventh birthday. 

Old enough that Harry couldn’t pretend Michael was actually his, and old enough that Kim didn’t have to do any of the work taking care of an infant. She might’ve stuck it out with a brown kid, just for the novelty. And what a pretty picture she would’ve made cradling it in her arms.

Michael was also white enough that Kim couldn’t quite maximize the social status of Michael’s adoption. (‘But he’s ethnically Jewish, you know.’ Kim would say, as often as she could.) White enough that Harry could pretend Michael  _ was  _ his, but only around strangers and others they didn’t know. (‘Though he doesn’t look very Jewish,’ Harry would say, as often as he could, ‘Hell, you look at him in the right light you could even call him handsome.’ And then he would laugh loud and hard at his own joke.)

And things had gone more or less as Kim and Harry wanted. Michael was a quiet kid. Easy. He did what he was told, he didn’t talk back. He wasn’t as spiritually inclined as Kim wanted, and wasn’t as charismatic or socially adept as Harry wanted. He was a compromise.

Which meant that neither of his adoptive parents would ever be wholly happy with him. 

He was probably fifteen when he finally figured that out.

“Did she tell you about my psychologist?” Michael asked, mouth feeling dry.

“She did.” Mr. Bouchard confirmed.

Kim wanted him to go to a psychiatrist too. Try to get him medicated. She was losing that fight so far. 

_ Oh but you’re letting yourself be depressed, Michael. I know it’s fashionable when you’re a teenager, but it’s just not healthy for your aura. _

“Have you ever been to a psychologist, Mr. Bouchard?”

Mr. Bouchard was as irritatingly affable as ever. “No, I can’t say that I have.” And Michael couldn’t tell if he was projecting the condescension into that tone or if it was genuine.

“They have you look at ink-blots and role-play with puppets and draw a crayon picture of how you view your place in the world.” Michael relayed, even though that was not what his psychologist had had him do. “It’s a total scam.”

His psychologist had asked him about Ryan, about how it felt to lose him. “It’s alright to be upset.” She had said. “It’s alright to be scared.” And she was calm, and she was genuine, and she was fair. She offered Michael tissues when he started sobbing into her couch.

Mr. Bouchard didn’t offer an opinion on the subject, steering the conversation elsewhere. “Well, even so, I can tell that your mother cares for your wellbeing, and wants you to have a smooth adjustment to your new setting.”

Michael’s brain stuttered at the mention of his mother. “Kim?” He said without really thinking.

“You don’t think of her as your mother?” Mr. Bouchard kept asking questions but saying them like facts. It made Michael’s skin itch. He felt his face pull into a scowl.

“My biological mum?” Michael said, “She was institutionalized.”

He wasn’t usually a very confrontational person.

“She was a strung-out junkie cannibal who worshipped the devil and dabbled in vampirism and shamanism.”

But it had been a  _ very  _ bad few weeks.

“She used to take me out to the neighbour's farm to kill the baby cows when I was a toddler. Once she gutted one she would pour its blood on my head and wrap its intestines around my neck like a scarf, then she’d start praying to demon gods. Sure, Satan would do her a favour now and again, but when I was six she blew all her money on black candles and we had to live in a dumpster. I have a scar on my foot where I stepped on an old needle once, want to see?”

Michael bent in the chair as if to pull off his shoe, but he caught a glimpse of Mr. Bouchard’s expression and stopped cold.

Michael didn’t engage with the sort of alpha-male posturing that Harry was so adept at, as Michael was so far from an alpha in any sense of the word that any attempt would be laughable at most. What Michael did have, or rather  _ didn’t _ , was any kind of brain-to-mouth filter.

It wasn’t a very impressive talent to have;  _ disarming _ people. It had gotten him into as many fights as it had gotten him out of. But with adults it usually worked fairly well. As soon as their pre-established rules for how a conversation was meant to be became ruined, they did anything short of running in order to stop talking with him.

But Mr. Bouchard just gave Michael a look. “Now that’s not quite true, is it Michael?”

That creeping shiver ran down his spine at Mr. Bouchard’s tone, and Michael felt the words trip out of him like air from a balloon. “N-no.” He stuttered, his voice falling flat. “I do this when I get nervous.” 

Mr. Bouchard nodded a little, “Yes, Mrs. Williams told me about that. You have… how did she say it - a slight tendency to lie. Compulsorily, even.”

“I’m  _ not- _ ” Michael started the sentence with force, but after the first two words realized he had nowhere to go. He didn’t want to say it out loud. Like maybe if he spoke the words it would sound too much like a confession.

_ Pathological. Compulsive. Pseudologia fantastica. _

He just lied when he was nervous. It wasn’t a sign of anything.

It wasn’t.

“My mum was bipolar.  _ Is _ bipolar.” Michael said, trying to prove his point. Somehow the words were harder to get out. “C-couldn’t… couldn’t keep a house.”

Mr. Bouchard nodded slowly in sympathy, but it felt forced. “That must’ve been very hard.”

Michael shrugged, fingers frantic with a loose thread on his hoodie.

He wasn’t allowed contact with her, after. Hadn’t seen her in ten years. He only knew she’d been sent to a hospital somewhere. He didn’t know if she was still there.

Michael didn’t have many memories of her anyway. He was removed from her care when he was barely seven. He could picture her face, but didn’t remember what exact colour her eyes were, or if she’d painted her nails every day or if it was only on special occasions. He didn’t remember much about her except that she was beautiful and funny and kind and used to leave him alone at the park if he started crying too much.

He didn’t think that made her a bad mum.

“I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a few appointments for you with our guidance counselor; Ms. Robinson.” Mr. Bouchard said into the silence, attention already turned to a few papers on his desk. “She’ll be there to help smooth over any… rough patches in your transition here.”

He slid a manila folder over to Michael, “In there you’ll find your class schedules, syllabus, a map of the grounds, and whatever else you might need to make a good fresh start here at the Magnus Institute.”

Michael picked up the folder with some hesitance.

Mr. Bouchard gave him a smile from across the desk, “I do hope you enjoy your time here, Michael.” The dismissal was evident. “Your first appointment with Ms. Robinson is tomorrow at seven A.M., before morning classes start. You’ll find her office down the stairs at the end of the hall. Now,” He leaned back in his chair, “Do you have any questions for me?”

Michael’s gaze fell to the folder in his lap, he opened his mouth, but closed it again as Mr. Bouchard pointedly cleared his throat.

_ Right. Eye contact. _

Bringing his eyes up again, Michael felt his voice falter. He forced the words out.

“Does… does anybody know what happened?” At Mr. Bouchard’s slight quirk of his brow, Michael explained, “To - to Ryan.” He stuttered. “Nobody knows, right?”

Mr. Bouchard sighed heavily, “The staff has been briefed on the subject,” He said, sounding bored, “And it was in the news, if I recall, so I’m sure some students are aware of who Ryan was and what happened to him. But, as a minor, your involvement in the case never included a published name, so unless any students here knew you or Ryan previously, I doubt they’ll make the connection.” He said that last part with just the smallest sneer of contempt. “Unless you tell them, of course.”

Michael just shook his head, feeling sick.

The silence extended for a few long seconds before Mr. Bouchard prompted, “Then that will be all, Michael. I’m sure you can find your way back.”

Michael stood from the seat, feeling a little wobbly. He thought maybe he should say something.

“Uh, thank you. Mr. Bouchard.” He said haltingly, and turned to go.

He felt Mr. Bouchard’s eyes on him until the moment he was out of the front office.

~

Michael held the map in one hand and adjusted his tie with the other.

The Magnus school uniform was coded an emerald green, with stiff slacks and an itchy jumper and an intricate school crest embroidered on the chest that started to appear a bit like an eye if you looked at it too long. Michael felt like he was wearing a tent, having ordered the largest size to accommodate his overall length in body, but lacking the width to actually fill out any of the clothes.

“Put your arms out to the sides and the wind’ll pick you up like a parachute.” Harry had said that morning, and then had laughed very hard.

Michael just felt awkward and gangly, although that did align with how he felt most of the time, so it wasn’t like it was much of an outlier. He operated outside of his comfort zone at all times, it seemed. He hadn’t even peripherally  _ seen  _ his comfort zone in like ten years.

“Must’ve misplaced it somewhere.” Michael mumbled to himself, laughing a little. Then realized he was talking nonsense and cleared his throat, trying to be normal.

_ Please god, just be  _ normal  _ for once _ .

The Magnus Institute: School for the Gifted was an old building, imposing both in its size and age. The double doors leading into the building were clearly new - varnished wood and brass handles, but the rest was greyed and looming two-hundred year old stone. Michael didn’t know anything about architecture, but he thought the style might be something that could be described as ‘gothic’. It certainly chilled him to look at.

The paper containing the floorplan and a pencil-charted path to the guidance counselor’s office was starting to warp in Michael’s sweaty palm, which probably meant he should’ve gone inside by now. He grabbed the brass handle, tried to ignore how his fingers shook, and opened the door.

He stepped inside, dogged by a feeling that he had just gone past a point of no return.

Gertrude Robinson’s office was separate from the rest of the administration, in fact it seemed like it was separate from the rest of the functioning building.

It almost felt intentional, Michael thought as he went down yet another dim hallway to finally find the stairs down to the basement. But of course, that would be ridiculous. It was just the poor lighting, making him suspicious of everything.

The stairs creaked loudly as Michael descended, he winced as the noise echoed through the empty halls. Well, if she hadn’t known he was coming before, she definitely knew now. 

He checked the time. 6:54. He hoped these morning appointments wouldn’t last the whole year, he wasn’t sure he could survive getting up so early once the new school experience finally faded into the mundane.

The basement corridor stretched onwards ahead of him, walls dotted on either side with office doors. The threadbare carpet was so faded he couldn’t quite tell what the pattern or colours were originally supposed to be. One of the overhead lights flickered.

Only one of the doors had the lights on inside, a yellow glow illuminated the frosted window from the inside. The plaque read “Counselor’s Office”.

Michael knocked softly, any noise feeling loud above the low electrical buzz humming through the hall. No answer. Worried she hadn’t heard, Michael knocked again a little louder.

Still nothing.

He tried the door, the knob was stiff, he twisted harder and harder and suddenly it turned with no resistance and he was nearly pulled off balance by the door swinging open. Quickly righting himself against the doorframe, Michael took in Gertrude Robinson’s office.

It was, in a word, a complete and utter mess.

Boxes of files and papers were arranged on the shelves behind the desk in such a precarious way that Michael was sure they were in danger of tumbling to the ground at any second. The desk itself was something very old and very sturdy, and it was only because of this that it managed to weather the weight of the papers and staplers and cups of pens stacked atop it. He spotted the elbow of an old cardigan in a gap between filing stacks.

“M-Ms. Robinson?” Michael asked, hesitant.

An elderly woman appeared from behind the stacks, leaning in her office chair. Her hair was pulled back into a frighteningly tight bun, and her mouth was drawn into a firm line.

“Oh, yes, you must be Michelle. Come in.”

Michael stuttered past the small wave of embarrassment, “Oh, it’s uh, Michael Shelley. Actually.” 

Gertrude inspected him over the rim of her glasses, then looked back down at one of the many pieces of paper scattered on her desk. “Yes,” She mumbled to herself, “Yes I see. Suppose I misread. Well, have a seat, Michael.”

The only available chair was occupied by a rather beaten-up filing box and its contents. Michael awkwardly lifted, shifted, and lowered it to the ground, atop yet another scattering of papers, and sat down.

Gertrude got right down to it, “Now Michael, I’m aware that this isn’t where you’d like to spend your mornings, so I’ll keep this brief for both our sakes.”

“Er, okay.” Michael agreed hesitantly.

“Let me make sure I have all your personal details down correctly. Full name Michael Gabriel Shelley, guardians Harrison and Kimberly Williams-”

“Uh, Gabrian.” Michael corrected hesitantly.

“What?”

“It’s Gabrian. N-not uh, not Gabriel. Just a… it was my great grandfather’s name. I mean, so I’ve been told, I suppose. I never actually met him before he, y’know, died. But, uh, yes.” Michael stumbled his way through the explanation, and upon seeing Ms. Robinson’s unimpressed expression, attempted a joking tone, “I mean, it’d be sort of odd to be named after  _ two  _ angels, right? One is - is more than enough.” He laughed nervously.

Ms. Robinson stared at him for a moment, and then her mouth did something funny, like she was either attempting or fighting off a smile. “Yes, moving on.” She said, and looked back down at the form.

Michael couldn’t imagine it was much fun, sitting in this basement office all the time, reading the driest paperwork imaginable. Ms. Robinson struck him as someone very unused to smiling. He tried not to feel too proud then, that he’d almost broken that shell.

Her eyesight seemed to be going as well, he had to correct her a handful of times on the documents, “Oh, uh. It’s 1996, the year I was born. Not um, 1969.” Which he usually felt a compulsion to attempt a humorous observation about, “I’m pretty sure I’m not forty-five.” They fell flat, more often than not, but Michael saw Ms. Robinson’s mouth do that funny twist again, which he counted as a success.

“So then, Michael.” Ms. Robinson began, “You’ll be coming in to meet me every morning for the upcoming week, then only Tuesdays and Fridays. And in the future we’ll reschedule according to your needs.”

That sounded like quite a lot.

“Do I really need to be coming in so often?” Michael asked, “I thought this was just for, er, if I had scheduling difficulties, or something.”

“Considering what you’ve been through,” Ms. Robinson began, paying no mind to the way Michael’s shoulders hunched at the words, “Mr. Bouchard and I thought it best if you received a little more attention. At least for your first few weeks here, until you’re able to adjust.”

“That’s alright, really.” Michael hastened, “I’m sure you’re busy with other jobs, I’d hate to take up your time-”

“Michael,” She interrupted him coolly, “This is, in fact, my job.”

“... Right.” Michael said.

Ms. Robinson moved on, “I’d like to help you with, yes, scheduling and keeping up with your classes, but also to make sure you’re doing alright.”

When she looked at him again, it was with something soft. Softer than anyone Michael could remember looking at him. Michael got the feeling that she meant it, when she said it.

It sent Michael off-balance. People didn’t say things like that and  _ mean  _ it. 

Or at least, not until Ms. Robinson.

“I’m doing fine.” Michael smiled.

Ms. Robinson gave him a flat look.

She began organizing his file, quite possibly the only organized file in the entire room, and said, “I know you’re seeing a psychologist, so I won’t try to be one for you. I’m here if you need me, and when you come here you shouldn’t feel pressured to have to speak about your feelings.” Her eyes glanced up at him over the rim of her spectacles, “But.”

Michael tried not to grimace.

“This… dishonesty habit of yours, I wanted to speak about it with you.” 

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Do you like lying?” Ms. Robinson asked.

“Not particularly.” Michael lied. Though the question had made something in his brain stall. 

It certainly didn’t make him feel any better. Most of the time it made people angry, or stop trusting him. But it wasn’t like he hated it either. The truth, the real truth, was that it didn’t matter whether he  _ liked  _ lying or not.

It was just easier.

Ms. Robinson, apparently, didn’t pull punches with her questioning. “So why do you do it?” 

_ Can’t help it. _ “It happens when I’m nervous.”

“A coping mechanism, perhaps.” She suggested.

“Uh, sure.” Michael said, “Maybe.”

There was no root to it. Or at least, not one he’d found. Not one his psychologist had found either, and she was seemingly dedicated to learning his childhood front to back. 

He thought of it more like plaque, building up on a set of teeth. No single day is what causes the cavity. It’s all the days that came before.

“Are you truthful to yourself, at the very least?” Ms. Robinson’s eyes were fixed like an owl’s. It felt too intimidating to meet head on. So Michael stared at where his fingernail had found a chip in her desk, and shrugged his shoulders.

No one had ever asked him that before. It was always about lying to other people. It was always about the things he said out loud. It was uncomfortable, the way it felt like Ms. Robinson was trying to peel him open. But there was also something about it.

In the way she said she wanted to make sure he was alright.

She was a Guidance Counselor, after all. It was her job to help students.

“Do you write, Michael?” She asked suddenly.

“... Like, a diary?”

A sigh, “If you’d like to put it that way.”

Michael shook his head no.  _ He _ could barely read his own writing, and avoided it as much as possible. As a result, his penmanship appeared, at best, to resemble what might happen if an infinite number of monkeys were all fighting over a single typewriter.

“Are you lying to me?” Gertrude said archly.

“That’s a bit of a catch-22 of a question.” Michael mumbled.

Gertrude did that sigh again, and leaned over in her chair. With her eyes safely off of him, Michael watched as her mouth twisted in that funny way again.

“I’d like you to take this with you when you go.” Gertrude opened a side drawer in her desk and began rifling through it, “Now you don’t have to use it, but I believe it may help… organize your thoughts.”

She placed a handheld tape recorder on the desk, then went searching in another drawer, presumably for fresh tapes. “I do know it’s old-fashioned,” She remarked, “Though I suppose cassettes are somewhat ‘trendy’ now, among the younger crowd.”

Michael pictured himself trying to record anything and was only greeted by the memory of creating his own voicemail and the full-body cringe he’d experienced when his answer message was played back to him. His voice always sounded different on recordings than it did in his head.

He started to protest, “That’s not really-”

“And if you have troubles with writing, well, this may be the next best thing.” Gertrude continued as if she hadn’t heard. She set a stack of blank tapes beside the recorder, and finally seemed to catch wind of his expression.

Her face softened, “I’d like you to make a record, of any and all the things that are bothering you. You don’t have to show them to anyone, I certainly won’t be listening to them, they are for your benefit and your benefit only.” Gertrude looked at him seriously, “You may find it easier, speaking into a tape, than to someone else.”

Michael wasn’t sure she was right, but those eyes from their perch behind her reading glasses felt like they pierced into all the doubt within him. Like she could see all of it. Like she was challenging him to prove her wrong.

“Uh, okay.” He agreed hesitantly, and took the handful of tapes to put them in his bag.

“You may come back if you need new tapes, or I suppose you could record over the old ones.” Gertrude said. “Oh and Michael, I’d like you to try to tell the  _ truth  _ when you’re recording. Just as an exercise.”

Michael glanced up from where he was opening his bag and mumbled an, “O-okay, Ms. Robinson.” But fumbled a little with the cassettes. Three of them caught on the lip of his bag and tumbled to the carpeted floor, Michael bent double in the cramped chair to pick them up.

He was still reaching over the carpet when he heard the door open with a creak and a loud bang. Michael jumped a little, and still bent towards the floor, looked between his own shins to see an upside down pair of black combat boots come into view.

Michael swung up so fast he made himself dizzy.

“Gertrude do you have a-” The guy who’d walked in cut himself off as Michael came into view. And Michael instantly regretted putting himself in this guy’s sights.

The dyed black hair and the painted black nails and the scuffed black boots painted a very clear picture of Do Not Fuck With Me. Michael glanced back to Gertrude. She had visibly changed then, when the other kid entered. Eyebrows drawing together, back straightening, mouth flattening. Michael darted his eyes between the two, worried something was about to happen.

He certainly looked like a troublemaker. And Michael wasn’t really in the habit of judging books by their covers, but this kid seemed to want everyone to know exactly what kind of person he was. From the piercings in his ears to the eye images on his knuckles, which could’ve either been tattoos or the result of a boring class and a spare pen. His uniform was artfully disheveled in such a way that made very clear exactly what he thought of wearing it; tie unknotted and stuffed in a pocket, button-up unbuttoned and untucked, revealing a faded t-shirt underneath, the lapel of his jacket held together almost entirely by safety pins.

All in all, he struck a very intimidating figure. And when his eyes moved from Gertrude to fix on Michael - the smudged eyeliner and darkened brows only intensifying the force of the gaze - Michael shrank down instinctively in his seat.

“Who’s this poor bugger then?” He asked, still staring.

Gertrude spoke, voice a little sharper than before. “Gerard, this is Michael Shelley. He’s a new student.”

Michael managed a nervous smile.

“Michael, this is Gerard Keay. He once spent detention in my office, and has apparently decided to never leave.”

Gerard cracked a grin at that, and Michael was surprised at how it seemed to change his whole face. He looked to Gertrude, “Somebody’s got to find the body once you finally keel over, old bat.”

Michael glanced fearfully to Gertrude, worried how she might respond to such obvious disrespect from a student, but she merely arched her eyebrows. “I’d be surprised if I even have the chance to die from old age before you finally manage to antagonize the wrong person.”

_ Oh god, _ Micheal’s gaze swung back to Gerard, not sure what he was supposed to do if anything escalated.

Instead, Gerard just gave a short laugh, “Here’s hoping.” He said with amusement, “You got a bucket I can borrow?”

Instead of asking what on earth Gerard might need a bucket for, Gertrude merely hummed, “There’s a custodian’s closet across the hall.”

Gerard gave a little half shrug and turned to leave, only stopped by Gertrude’s interjection.

“And Gerard, show Michael to his first class, would you? The halls are… hard to navigate for newcomers.”

That intense look slid back to Michael then, and Michael was suddenly sure that he could manage to find whatever classroom it was on his own. But before he could protest, Gerard shrugged again.

“Sure.” He said flatly, and threw open the door. “Come along, Michael.”

Michael looked back to Gertrude, but she had already turned back to her paperwork, a clear dismissal. Reluctantly, Michael unfolded himself from the chair, tucked the tape recorder away in his bag, and followed Gerard with a small, “Goodbye. And erm, thank you, Ms. Robinson.”

“Yes yes,” She said absently, marking something with a pen.

Michael closed the door behind him.

Gerard had already begun searching the dusty custodian’s closet across the hall, barely any light leaking in from the already dim bulbs.

“So,” Gerard’s voice called from the darkness, “What year are you in, Michael?”

“Uh, twelve.” Michael stood awkwardly by the doorway, not sure what he should be doing.

Gerard made a considering noise, and then there came a clattering, like he’d just knocked something over. “You’re probably with Rayner first thing then, am I right?”

Michael went to check his class schedule, but had only begun rifling through his bag when Gerard came back into view, metal mop bucket in one hand and a dustpan in the other. “I’m in upper sixth. We had Rayner last year-” He cut himself off as he nearly ran into Michael’s shoulder.

Gerard stopped, craned his head up, took a step back so he could look easier, and then appraised Michael consideringly for a long moment. Michael tried not to fidget under his scrutiny. Somehow Gerard was no less intimidating even when he only came up to about Michael’s chin, even with the boots. 

“Well,” Gerard stepped around him and started up the stairs, steps echoing loudly, “Least I wont lose you in a crowd. Come on.”

Michael obeyed hastily, following Gerard up the stairs and through a series of twisting halls and doors. 

They passed a group of bay windows that lit the hall in weak morning sunlight, overlooking an overgrown courtyard, vines and weeds choking up the surrounding bricks. The building felt old, but more than that it felt… alive. Like when realtors describe a house as having a lot of ‘character’. But in a quieter sense. A sleeping beast, maybe.

Gerard stopped suddenly outside a door marked as the boys toilets and pointed down the hall, “Rayner’s classroom is down there on your second right, his is the room without any windows.” Then he went into the boys bathroom without another word.

Michael hesitated, unsure of whether to follow. It was a clear dismissal, and following someone into the bathroom was weird no matter how you sliced it, but -

The distinct sound of water being poured into a metal container started up, muffled a little behind the door.

Unable to slake his curiosity, Michael went in.

Gerard had fashioned a makeshift spout by placing the dustpan under the tap, letting it catch the water in the flared pan, only to funnel out and down through the handle. The water arced in a steady stream down to where it echoed in the metal bucket, slowly filling. Gerard himself was leaned up against the sink countertop, watching the water with a bored expression.

“... What are you doing?” Michael asked hesitantly, the sound of his voice bouncing strangely off the tiled walls. The sound of water hitting tin rang in his ears.

Gerard was not surprised by Michael’s entrance, or his question, and simply kicked the bucket a little, making the water slosh around. “What’s it look like?” He seemed amused.

Michael had no clue what this could possibly look like, so he said nothing.

“Do you believe good people exist, Michael?” 

The question caught Michael off guard, and he couldn’t help the nervous laugh that fell involuntarily from him. Until he realized Gerard was actually waiting for an answer.

“Uh, I dunno. Maybe?” Michael said, “Depends on your um, your definition of ‘good’ I suppose.”

Gerard nodded slowly at this, like he was genuinely considering, “Okay, well, let me give you a scenario; a stranger comes into your house and steals all your shit.” Michael was well and truly lost now, “In this scenario, the person who stole your shit is obviously Bad, right? We can agree that stealing is wrong?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Michael agreed.

“In this story, the ‘you’ is basically a non-entity. Not good or bad or what have you, just the victim of a crime. Now, imagine you have a friend-”

The ‘imagine’ part of that sentence might’ve been a bit of a sting.

“And this friend finds the person who stole from you, they track that person down, and they steal your stuff back for you. Is your friend a good person?”

“I mean… yeah?” Michael said. The bucket was nearly halfway full.

“Okay, now what if they steal your stuff back from you,  _ but _ … they also take a little something extra. Your friend sees something at the stranger’s house, thinks to themself, ‘well, I’m already here’ and goes ahead and pockets it. Are they still a good person?”

Michael scratched an itch on his eyebrow. It was too early for this conversation. “Er, I dunno, maybe? I mean, the stranger stole stuff first so I suppose stealing from that person would be uh… like a taste of their own medicine?”

“So you think stealing is good when you take from another thief?” Gerard prompted.

Michael threw his hands up, “I don’t know,  _ maybe _ ? What is this even  _ for _ ?”

Gerard reached over and turned off the tap, the noise from the water stopped, and at his feet was a mop bucket about three quarters of the way full. “Oh, no reason.” Gerard said, “Just for fun. C’mon.” Then, with some effort, he lifted the bucket, careful not to let any water spill out the sides, and left the bathroom.

Michael got the odd feeling that he had passed some sort of test, but had no idea what for. He followed Gerard out of the bathroom, down the hall, past where Gerard had told him to turn to get to his first class, until they ended up by a door set seemingly at random in the wall. The window a few feet beside it told Michael that this door would probably lead straight outside, which was enough to make Michael a little nervous, as they were currently a floor above ground level.

Gerard interrupted his thoughts by shoving the bucket of water into Michael’s chest. “Hold this for a second.” Michael instinctively put his arms around it, and even through the uniform jumper could feel the chill of the water-cooled metal seeping into his skin.

Gerard crouched by the doorknob, and Michael instinctively glanced around them, feeling like whatever they were doing was probably very much against the rules. But no one was around, the halls completely empty so early in the morning.

He’d expected Gerard to perhaps pick the lock with a secret tool of some kind, as Gerard looked like the kind of person who might know how to pick a lock. Michael was wondering to himself if that was an offensive thing to assume about someone when Gerard pulled out a small pocketknife and promptly jammed the blade into the keyhole. It took a lot of shoving, a few muttered curses from Gerard’s part, and Michael’s arms signaling that they were in fact getting a little tired holding onto a few gallons of water, when the door finally relented and swung open.

On the other side was a small stone balcony, jutting out just above what would’ve been the school’s front entryway. On either end were two flagpoles, one sporting the union jack, and the other displaying the school crest.

Michael could see why the door had been locked, as the stone balustrade only reached to about his mid thigh - probably hip height on Gerard - and did not look very… safe.

Despite this, Gerard strode out onto the balcony with confidence, and Michael followed, still holding the bucket of water, still very confused.

“Er, so, why are we here?”

“The real question is,” Gerard said, reaching the end of the balcony and looking over the railing with the nonchalance of a person very sure in their footing. He turned then and sat down, resting his back against the balustrade and tilting his head up to look at Michael, “What if you can’t steal it back?”

Michael sat next to him, “What?” He set the bucket a little awkwardly down to rest between his knees.

“What if your friend can’t track the stranger down, or the stranger’s gone and burned your shit, or something?” Gerard continued. Michael worried he might’ve sat a bit too close, but Gerard didn’t seem to mind. “Or what if they’ve stolen something that can’t be returned, like what if they’ve murdered you? What does your friend do then?”

Michael watched the still water in the bucket tremble as his fingers tapped a nervous staccato on the metal. 

“There’s no taking back a life, or reversing a debilitating injury, or something.” Gerard said, “So what is the good action to choose in that scenario?”

Gerard was waiting for him to answer, so Michael just shrugged, “A funeral, maybe?”

Gerard continued like Michael hadn’t spoken, “There’s nothing to reverse the bad action, so the only good action would be retribution, right? That’s why we have a justice system put in place.”

Gerard leaned in close, like someone might hear them up on a balcony half an hour before classes even began, “But the system fails sometimes. You know this, I know this, the whole world knows this. The system won’t do anything. So, if your friend wants to be a good person, what do they do?”

“Er… justice?” Michael tried.

Gerard just nodded, “Justice. However you can make it.”

Michael looked down at the bucket between his legs, “So is this like a hazing ritual or like a metaphor for somethi-?”

“Wait, hold on she’s here.” Gerard waved a hand at Michael, gesturing to stay seated while he stood up to look over the stone railing. “Okay, when I give you the signal, throw the water over the edge.”

“What?” Michael said frantically, “Wh - what’s the signa-?”

“Oi!” Gerard shouted, no longer speaking to Michael but down to the entryway below, “Jude Perry!”

A beat.

An answering call came echoing back, “What do  _ you  _ want, dickhead?”

Michael watched from below as Gerard’s face split into a wild grin. This one was different than the one he’d used with Gertrude. Meaner.

Gerard yelled down, “Did you set Jonathan Sims on fire in chemistry yesterday?”

It was quiet for a moment, and then a laugh came from below, joined by a few others. “Course I did! That snotty little know-it-all was so fucking annoying!”

Gerard’s grin turned slowly, slowly, into the scariest glare Michael had ever seen.

Jude continued from below, “Wasn’t  _ my  _ fault he didn’t keep his hand away from the bunsen burner!” She laughed again. “The little coward didn’t even tell Montague I’d done it, fucking pussy.”

Michael curled a little around the bucket of water, heart beating wildly as he watched Gerard sneer above him.

“You’re a real piece of work, Jude.” Gerard called.

It only made her laugh louder, “Is that your plan, then? Toss half-baked insults at me from your ivory tower? Once upon a time you’d actually throw a punch, you emo bitch.”

Gerard had only contempt on his face, “Beating your arse got old the fourth time I wiped the floor with you. Just wanted to make sure you were the one that did it.” Without looking, he nudged at Michael’s shoulder, and Michael jumped so hard some of the water sloshed out of the bucket and onto his shoes. He scrambled to pull it back upright and get it over the lip of the stone divider. 

“Fourth time you got  _ suspended _ , maybe!” Jude jeered.

Michael got one good look at Jude before he had already tilted the precariously balancing mop bucket over the side. Between the buzzcut, the arms thick as tree trunks straining the sleeves of her uniform and the twisted expression, it occurred to Michael that Jude Perry might not be the kind of person he should be making an enemy of.

The thought came too late, as a cascade of water came raining down upon Jude’s head in one wet rush. She’d leapt backwards in shock, but had already caught the worst of it. And she and one of her lackeys standing at an unfortunately close distance were both completely soaked.

“I -” Michael wasn’t sure what he was about to say (apologize, maybe?) when the now-empty bucket slipped from his fingers and tumbled down, down-

Only to land in the direct center of Jude Perry’s forehead.

The metallic clang felt like it echoed in Michael’s bones, and he barely heard the sharp bark of surprised laughter from Gerard beside him.

The bucket fell to the ground, Jude stumbled back, hand to her forehead. She looked down, saw the bucket - now severely dented - then looked up.

And Michael was suddenly very sure that she was going to murder him.

Jude’s eyes locked with Michael’s, water dripping from her brows and chin, eyeliner running down her face, and he watched as her shock morphed into boiling rage. 

“Who the  _ fuck  _ are  _ you _ !?”

Michael felt a hand close firmly around his wrist, and Gerard pulled him sharply away from the edge, flinging the door open with a bang and rushing inside. Then they were running full-tilt through the halls.

Gerard’s boots thundered on the worn carpet, and for a good few moments all Michael could hear was his heart pounding in his ears and the sound of their feet scrambling through the corridors. Michael had long legs, certainly, but Gerard was  _ fast _ , and with one arm still clamped in a vice grip, Michael could do little more than stumble behind as Gerard turned a sharp corner down another identical hallway.

A trio of students burst through the stairwell at the other end of the hall, and Michael didn’t recognize them until Jude forced her way through to the front, the shoulders of her uniform dark with water. Upon spotting Gerard and Michael she shouted, “Keay!” 

And Gerard reversed his trajectory faster than Michael could blink. “This way!” He shouted, and wrenched Michael down another hall.

Jude Perry’s screams of “Get  _ back  _ here you vampire cunt!” rang out behind them, 

Gerard lead Michael through a twisting route of identical hallways and wooden doors until Michael was well and truly lost, unable to really do anything but allow himself to be dragged along. He hoped Gerard knew what he was doing.

Another corner, another door, when suddenly Gerard made a hairpin turn and yanked Michael towards it. Michael realized belatedly that this one had been left slightly ajar, and therefore actually open. Gerard flung the door wide, bundled himself and Michael inside, and then shut it as quickly as possible. 

The silence was punctuated by Michael and Gerard’s heavy breathing, a few shuttered windows providing the only weak light in the empty classroom. The two of them had pressed themselves into the tiny alcove just inside the door, with the wider room opening up into darkness behind them. Outside came the dull thunder of footsteps and clipped, angry voices. But they passed, and faded, and Michael felt the icy grip of panic finally loosen from around his ribs.

Gerard had been holding the door closed, one hand clenched around the doorknob, the other still gripping Michael’s wrist, and Michael watched as every muscle in his body relaxed. Gerard leaned forward a little to rest his forehead on the brushed wood, but Michael couldn’t see his expression in the dim light.

“You dropped a bucket on Jude Perry’s head.” Gerard said flatly.

“I - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-” Michael’s fumbled apologies were cut off by Gerard’s sudden and loud burst of laughter.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” Gerard finally moved the hand that had been wrapped around Michael’s wrist to jostle his shoulder, “That was incredible! Did you see her  _ face _ ?”

Michael felt a bubble of laughter rise up in his chest, and suddenly he was mirroring Gerard’s triumphant smile with a nervous grin of his own. The giggles spilled out of him in almost-hysterical waves, he nodded in the dark, “Oh my god I thought we were going to die!” His voice felt too loud in the empty room, but Gerard laughed along with him.

Gerard shook Michael’s shoulders again, which just made them both chortle like idiots, “You fucking - you-” He couldn’t finish the sentence, cut off by his own breathless laugh.

Michael really liked the sound of Gerard’s laugh.

Calming a little, still with that winning smile, Gerard took his hands from Michael’s shoulders and leaned back against the wall of the little alcove. Michael mirrored him, slumping back against the cool drywall. Between all the sprinting and the now-fading adrenaline rush, Michael was about ready to collapse.

“Wow,” Michael said finally, words buoyed with nervous laughter, “Wow, wow. That was… such a terrible idea.” He rubbed at his eyes with his hands, trying to banish the growing pit of fear that Jude Perry’s furious gaze had planted in his stomach. “I haven’t even made it to my first class yet and someone already wants to kill me.”

Gerard scoffed, but his voice was amused when he replied, “Trust me, you didn’t want to be friends with her anyway.”

“I think I would’ve been fine with escaping her notice altogether, really.” Michael was not looking forward to being visible, well, at all, really. But definitely not looking forward to being targeted more than usual.

Gerard was quiet for a long moment, before he said a clipped, “Sorry.”

Michael blinked, “What?”

“I pushed you into painting a target on your back.” He said, “So, sorry. That wasn’t - I just wanted to -” Gerard cut himself off. Inhaled sharply. Started again, “She didn’t get in trouble at all, for it.” He said, voice bitter. “Jon Sims probably knew if he squealed that he’d be getting a lot worse once he got back from hospital, so. She didn’t get any consequences. Sims is probably going to have scars for the rest of his life and she just got away with it.”

Michael couldn’t read Gerard’s expression in the low light. As it was, he only caught the sharp edge of a furrowed eyebrow.

“She shouldn’t have.” Michael said finally, “Trust me Gerard, I’m glad you invited me along. No regrets here.”

He was lying, of course. Jude was going to pulverize him when she saw him next, and Michael would’ve much rather avoided that.

But at the same time.

God, he just wanted Gerard to think he was cool.

It seemed to work, Gerard gave an exhale that could’ve been a short laugh. He looked at Michael then, and somehow making eye contact was just as intense as the last time.

“Gerry.” He said with a wry smile. “My friends call me Gerry.”

The giddy feeling that rushed through Michael was nigh uncontrollable. 

Quickly replaced by fear with the telltale click of a key sliding into a lock. Gerry and Michael jerked quickly away from the door. Gerry, Michael noticed belatedly, had thrown an arm out in front of Michael in some sort of half-formed protective stance. Michael thought it was rather funny. And sort of nice.

The man who opened the door was decidedly not a student. On the comfortable end of thirty, maybe, with a smart looking jacket and stubble sweeping under his jaw. Something about him set Michael on edge. There was a lightness, a humour about the man, certainly. But an uncomfortable one. Michael was met with the distinct feeling that this man was in on a joke, and the fact that Michael had no idea only made it funnier.

He paused when he saw Gerry and Michael standing in the dark doorway.

“Morning, sir.” Gerry clipped shortly. His arm had dropped back down to his side, which Michael thought was a shame. Gerry had straightened up under this teacher’s scrutiny, as if trying to reach an intimidating height despite being the shortest person in the room. This teacher did not receive any of Gerry’s easygoing attitude as Gertrude had.

The teacher nodded in stiff recognition, “Good morning, Gerard.” He smiled blankly as he took the two of them in. “And who’s your new partner in crime?”

Michael and Gerry glanced at each other, and Michael introduced himself, “Er, Michael. Sir.”

The teacher tilted his head in consideration, his chin was perpetually lifted slightly, so that he was constantly looking down his nose. Though he was perhaps only a few centimeters shorter than Michael, there was a certain presence to him. Like he wouldn’t mind taking up a bit more space. “You wouldn’t happen to be Michael Shelley, would you?”

Panic came swift and familiar, “Y-yes, sir.” Michael stuttered nervously. He glanced to Gerry again. Mr. Bouchard had said that the staff had been briefed on his ‘situation’, but Michael hoped beyond hope that this teacher wouldn’t say anything about Ryan. Not in front of Gerry, at the very least.

But the teacher just hummed in acknowledgement, “You’re quite early for my Philosophy class, Michael. It’s not until the afternoon.”

“Right, sorry,” Gerry was saying, “We were just-”

“Gerry was showing me where to find my classes.” Michael said quickly, “The door was open so he thought you might be in.”

“Ah, well.” The teacher hadn’t broken eye contact with Michael for a very long time, his stillness was unnerving. “I am glad we could be introduced. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He gestured with his leather briefcase, clearly dismissing them.

Michael had taken the hint as well as Gerry, but that didn’t stop Gerry from grabbing hold of Michael’s sleeve to tug him along. Michael wasn’t sure he minded. 

“Yeah, we’ll be off, thanks.” Gerry said flatly, “See you around Mr. Sannikov.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for this chapter i just uhh *frantically googling philosophy talking points*
> 
> jdate provided major inspiration for a couple points in this story so... if you've read it this fic will be about the same level of dark, give or take
> 
> .
> 
> CW’s FOR CHAPTER 2 (may contain spoilers):   
> bullying; discussion of taking a firearm into a school building; discussion and unintentional consumption of another character's bodily fluids and cosmetic parts (hair/nails/urine); underage smoking; brief mention of vomit and feces; minor nosebleed; blood in general; existential discussions; questioning reality; vague memory of another character’s manic episode; instances and discussions of teenagers torturing each other

Getting detention before he even made it to his first class wasn’t exactly an achievement Michael had been trying for.

But, sat in Elias Bouchard’s office for the second time in as many days, he had, apparently, achieved it.

At least he had Gerry beside him, arms crossed and chin lifted and looking every bit the disdainful rebel. Michael thought about doing something like that, but wasn’t sure he could make the physicality of it believable. Instead he assumed his regular position, huddled in his chair like he could make himself unnoticed by hunching his shoulders and keeping his head down.

Elias Bouchard didn’t seem disappointed, at least. Or rather, he didn’t seem surprised. Just stared with disdain as he went through the regular motions of ‘respect for fellow students, demonstrations of professionalism, and the rudeness achieved by throwing a bucket at a young girl’s head’.

“I did expect better from you, Michael.” He said with a sigh, “But I suppose Ms. Robinson will have to teach you something about respect.”

Gerry snorted, as if this seemed unlikely to him. Michael was confused. If anything, Ms. Robinson’s quiet kindness and absentminded goodwill was the only thing Michael was inclined to respect.

They were dismissed rather quickly, with Mr. Bouchard giving Michael some thin advice about who he chose to spend his time with, looking pointedly towards Gerry.

For that, Michael resolved to spend even more time with Gerry, if he took Michael on as a friend, that was.

From the way he bumped Michael’s limp fist before leaving down the opposite hall, shooting him a quick, “See you at lunch, yeah?” Michael liked his odds.

He was late when he finally made it to Mr. Rayner’s class, and passed the room itself a few times, thinking it was empty without any lights on. It turned out Mr. Rayner simply had the world’s dimmest projector screen, and spent his classes with his students in near complete darkness.

Michael was pulled in front of the dim bulb upon entering the room, presented much like the physics problems up on the board. He squinted, trying to see any of his peers.

“Everyone, this is Michael Shelley. He’ll be your new classmate, give him a warm welcome.”

The applause was part sarcastic, and entirely halfhearted. Michael counted the seconds until this introduction was over with.

“Go ahead and take a seat, Michael.”

Before Michael could, Mr. Rayner apparently spotted someone raising their hand.

“Yes, Melanie?”

“How tall are you, Michael?”

Michael glanced from the space he assumed Melanie to be to Mr. Rayner and back again. “Six-four?” His voice lilted embarrassingly up at the end, like he was asking.

“ _ Fuck _ off.” Melanie said loudly. 

He was saved from trying to come up with an answer by the teacher snapping, “ _ Language _ , Miss King. Michael, take your seat and we can start.”

Michael did, finding an open desk at the back of the room. 

Directly in front of him was a kid with his head down on his desk, clearly sleeping. He could see why this seat had remained unoccupied until now. The kid in front of him was big in every way, not quite as tall as Michael, but with a lot on his bones. A real effective visual blockade for the average sized person. As it was, Michael just had to tilt his head to the side a little to see the board.

They probably had the same size uniform, Michael thought. Only  _ this  _ kid made the clothes look like there was actually a person underneath, instead of an awkwardly bent coat hanger. 

When Mr. Rayner started to drone on about the properties and angles of light, Michael reckoned perhaps the kid in front of him had the right idea. 

Michael wasn’t what anyone might describe as a good student. He showed up, yes. Didn’t make a fuss. But he didn’t retain information like other kids seemed to be able to. Numbers and formulas and rote memorization topics all turned to soup in his brain, and he was left doodling on his test papers until it was time to hand them in.

It wasn’t much of a problem for him. All the calls to stay in after lessons or offers of extra assistance or threats of repeating a year. It didn’t feel very concerning. All he ever did was kill some time in one building, only to go home and kill time in another building. It was all pointless, either way. He’d already resigned himself to it.

So his morning classes passed in the distant haze that every class at every school ever had, and Michael gathered his things, worried that he might not be able to find Gerry again. That he might spend his lunch hour staring blankly into space, like he had ever since Ryan had gone.

Michael and Ryan used to spend lunch hours together. They’d staked out their little corner of the room, remaining as unnoticed as possible so as to make it through the rest of the year untouched. Michael was very used to being scared. But sometimes it was easier when you felt like prey in a pack, rather than by yourself.

But Gerry was there when he looked, approaching quickly from the end of the hall. Michael wondered if he was in a rush, but considered that Gerry was probably the kind of person who would move fast just by default. Places to be, and such.

“How was class?” Gerry asked.

Michael opened his mouth to say the first thing that came to mind, but Gerry cut him off.

“I’m kidding, I don’t care. Are you buying lunch?”

Michael nodded a little, moving to keep up with Gerry and his fast pace. Michael was used to walking slower, this was new.

Gerry made a face at this, “Alright,” He said, “Canteen’s this way. You should pack something next time.”

Michael had never packed a lunch for himself before. Kim had tried to, when he was first adopted, but she got bored of the hassle and started sending him out the door with some bills in his pocket and left him to figure it out. Michael wasn’t sure where he would start if he were to pack anything. He decided not to tell Gerry any of this. It would probably seem childish, if Michael admitted he didn’t know how to make food for himself.

It was at that moment a girl rounded the corner and the line of Gerry’s shoulders went taut in a way Michael hadn’t seen before. 

He stopped so suddenly that Michael stumbled over his own feet in an attempt to follow, his soles squeaking harshly on the tile floors, and bringing the girl’s attention immediately to them.

She was sharp and exacting in a way that reminded him a little bit of Jude Perry. But where Jude Perry was rage, this girl was all intent.

Michael looked at Gerry, and found there wasn’t a hint of expression on his face.

“Keay.” She said by way of greeting.

“Montauk.” Gerry replied, tone flat.

She stood there, expectant, staring Gerry down as he glared right back. Until finally, Gerry glanced away, pulled a sheaf of papers out of his bag, and handed them to her with an aggressive sort of reluctance.

She gave the papers a once over, far too quickly to actually read anything, but enough to make Gerry - and by extension, Michael - uncomfortable.

“And who’s this, then?” Julia jerked her head in Michael’s direction without looking, “Your new pet?”

Michael swore he could hear Gerry’s teeth grind.

“Michael Shelley.” Gerry said, “He’s a transfer.”

Montauk made a sound that was a bit like a scoff and a bit like a laugh. She glanced up at Michael, gave him a very pointed once-over, and said, “Good luck.”

Michael was pretty sure she didn’t mean it.

She addressed Gerry again, “Congratulations,” She said, “You get to live without Hopworth turning your face into his personal art project. For now.”

Then, with a mean wink and a sharp turn, she was off down the hallway to join up with a student who looked like his muscles had muscles.

Michael heard a snippet of their conversation.

“Who’s the wispy looking one?” The student said, his voice deep and churning, like gravel.

“Keay’s new boyfriend.” Montauk responded, “I give him a week.”

The other student - Hopworth, Michael assumed - made a sound almost like a laugh. He might’ve made a response, but they were too far away now to hear.

Michael glanced at Gerry, who was staring at the floor hard enough to crack it.

“Julia Montauk.” Gerry said, in response to a question Michael didn’t ask. “Her step-dad is some board member, she thinks she can get away with anything.” He looked coiled up, like a spring.

“So, you…” Michael trailed off, still trying to piece together what happened.

“I write her essays sometimes in return for her and Jared to not beat the shit out of me.” Gerry said, and turned quickly, starting off down the hallway with a forced sort of determination. “Tried to fight back once. But I don’t have Trevor Herbert vouching for me.”

“Oh.” Michael said, as if he understood. And he did, didn’t he? He knew what it was like. Being a target.

It just didn’t seem the same, when it happened to Gerry. Gerry, who went out of his way to soak Jude Perry because she’d hurt some other kid. Gerry wasn’t like Michael, who would’ve just let it happen. To him, to a friend, to anyone. 

Gerry fought back.

Even with Julia, Michael got the impression that Gerry was just waiting for his chance.

“D’you know what the ‘gifted’ part means?” Gerry said suddenly.

“The… gifted part?” Michael asked.

“Y’know, ‘Magnus Institute, School for the Gifted.” Gerry clarified, “ _ ‘Gifted’ _ in this instance only ever meaning one of two things.  _ Troubled _ .” He said it with emphasis. “Or disabled.” He stopped outside a pair of double doors and looked at Michael then, eyes very dark and very intense. “And Elias Bouchard sure hasn't installed wheelchair ramps anywhere. You Michael, have ended up with the worse of those two options. Every single one of those fuckers in there is either a bloodthirsty monster or the kind of kid they like to eat. Now I’m sure you know exactly which one you are, which is why you’re going to shut up and only speak to the people I speak to. Yeah?”

“Uh, okay?” Michael squeaked.

Gerry just stared for a long moment, assessing, before setting his shoulders and saying, “Brace yourself.” Before opening the doors.

Michael was immediately underwhelmed. By all accounts, it was a completely standard cafeteria. Noise like static hanging over everything, groups of teenagers speaking loudly to each other around tables.

The only odd thing about it that Michael could tell, as he stood in line to pick up something that looked halfway appealing, was that the tables, walls, and furnishings were incredibly old. Like well preserved antiques.

He picked Gerry out easily among the crowd, sat down alone at a table, glaring at nothing. Every other student was giving him a wide berth. Michael felt a little thrill at the thought that Gerry wanted to eat lunch with him, of all people, when he so clearly didn’t want anyone else.

Michael had never been anyone’s exception before.

He’d only just sat to start eating his yogurt when they were joined by a third person. She was both intimidating in the ways Michael found most people intimidating, but also in the nasty white scar that crept and blossomed over her left temple like spiderweb.

She sat down across from Michael and Gerry, steepling her fingers together on the table with a pleasant expression. As if this were a business meeting.

“Annabelle Cane.” She held a certain amount of smugness in each word, and held out a hand to shake.

Michael glanced at Gerry, who looked like he wanted to start throwing punches. It was very intimidating, but didn’t exactly tell Michael how he was supposed to react to this. He defaulted to what he was pretty sure was the polite thing to do.

Spoon in his mouth, he mumbled, “Uh, Michael Shelley.” And took her hand. She had a very light grip, sort of dainty, which he was not expecting.

“Ew.” Annabelle said.

Michael blinked. “Um, what?”

“No,  _ ewe _ . E, W, E.” She enunciated. “A female sheep. That’s what Shelly means.”

Michael was pretty sure that wasn’t right, but realized he didn’t know what Shelley really meant anyway. He opened his mouth to inform her that actually it meant ‘sea-shell collector’, which was equally wrong, but at least sort of funny, when she cut him off to breezily change the subject.

“So, why are you here at the Magnus Institute, little sheep?” Annabelle smiled, her teeth mean and white, “Running from wolves? You may want to reconsider your current company if so.”

Gerry looked murderous, and that familiar bafflement came to Michael. The fact that he was pretty sure this was an instance of bullying, but it felt so alien when it was directed at Gerry that Michael wasn’t exactly sure how to respond.

So he took the spoon out of his mouth and said, “I brought a gun to my old school.” And that stopped Annabelle in her tracks.

It stopped Gerry cold too, and he looked at Michael with a wide-eyed expression that Michael couldn’t identify. It occurred to Michael, belatedly, that Gerry might not be okay with something like that.

Annabelle scrutinized him for a moment, and then her mouth twitched just slightly. “Yeah right.”

Michael let the words spill out, “It wasn’t a real gun, obviously. But I’d painted the toy one beforehand so it looked real enough from a distance. The police at least couldn’t tell.” Michael hadn’t so much as looked at a toy gun since Ryan’s cowboy-themed birthday party when they were eleven. “The school kicked me out after that, but the look on their faces was priceless.”

Annabelle tapped a finger against her chin consideringly, “I think I would’ve heard about something like that.”

“You might’ve,” And the more Michael talked, the more he started to recognize Gerry’s expression as something like shock. That was probably bad. “But they couldn’t publish any names, with me being a minor and all. Didn’t stop them from expelling me though.”

Michael was realizing that Gerry may have just reclassified him. In a room of bloodthirsty monsters and their meals, the kid who talks about bringing a gun to school is decidedly not a prey animal.

It might’ve been good, in a way. If Gerry didn’t see him as defenseless. But Michael would rather have Gerry hanging around offering his protection than dumping a bucket of water on Michael’s head.

Michael liked Gerry. He was cool and scary and carried out justice when no one else would. Michael wondered in an idle way, which side of the prey/predator equation Gerry saw himself on. But that was a dumb question. Michael knew it as soon as he thought it. Gerry was, of course, neither. Outside the cycle, watching the ecosystem at work.

It must feel nice, Michael thought. To see yourself as separate from the chaos. Not above it, just… apart. The scientist observing the variables rather than the variables themselves.

But Gerry didn’t know the secret yet.

That they were all prey. Every last one of them, struck to the bone with terror. The only difference is that some animals bite when they’re backed into a corner, and some play dead.

Michael had learned that secret just over a month ago.

Annabelle opened her mouth, probably to try and prod at Michael’s story a little more, when a sharp shout shot from across the cafeteria, followed by the distinct sound of a spit-take.

Michael turned to look, along with Gerry and half the student body.

Some kid was bent over in his chair, glass bottle of apple-juice in one hand. Scattered droplets of juice and spit littered the tile at his feet. And Michael might not’ve heard what he said, if the whole room hadn’t gone quiet.

“Tastes like piss!”

A beat.

And then two kids at a table over, looking similar enough to be brothers, started killing themselves laughing.

In that instant, everyone knew what had occurred. Michael felt queasy.

The kid with the glass bottle of what definitely wasn’t apple-juice had a look of disgust and embarrassment and outrage rise on his face, and in an instant he had stood and was across the room, looking for a fight. The bottle was still in one hand, maybe he’d forgotten it in his rage or - no, he upended the whole thing on one of the brothers’ heads.

The whole room exploded into noise at that. A crowd of eager students stood from their seats and surrounded the quickly escalating fight. Michael caught a glimpse of one of the brothers with a line of blood down his nose, the expression carved on his face a twisted, animalistic grin. Then someone’s head blocked his line of sight.

“Oh.” Annabelle said mildly, “He finally noticed.”

Michael turned back to her, she had a look of vague amusement on her face. It reminded him of poker players, almost. Chin up, mouth neutral, eyelids at a deliberate half-mast. “What?”

Annabelle locked eyes with him, smile getting a fraction wider. “John and Tom Haan have been putting things in Craig Goodall’s food for weeks now.” Michael must’ve made the appropriate expression, because she continued, “At first it was little things. Bits of hair and fingernail clippings and whatever else.” She leaned over the table, “You know, it’s surprisingly easy to sneak into the kitchens. The staff always forget to lock the door.”

More people were shouting across the cafeteria, some teachers had probably gotten involved. Annabelle just rested her chin on her hand, performatively put-out. “There was some real artistry to it in the beginning.” She said, disappointed, “But eventually they got sloppy. And less targeted. Cross-contamination is a real problem, you know.”

She glanced very purposely down at Michael’s tray. Michael couldn’t help follow her gaze. That small pile of potatoes were starting to look very suspect.

“Enjoy the rest of your lunch.” She said sweetly, and waggled her fingers in his direction. “Baa baa, little sheep.” And then she was walking away.

Michael had very suddenly lost his appetite. 

He looked to Gerry, who was still staring at where the fight was being broken up, and caught a glimpse of that same shock-disgust-anger in his expression. Before Michael could do something like ask, Gerry stood abruptly.

“I need a smoke.” He said, and started walking away, his boots adding a percussion to the orchestra of voices across the room.

Michael glanced one more time at his tray, tried to recall if his yogurt had been opened before he’d started eating it, and then scrambled up to follow Gerry, not wanting to spend another second in that cafeteria.

He found Gerry outside, in a little concrete alcove beside the back steps.

Michael sort of expected Gerry to tell him to fuck off, especially with how furious he’d looked when Michael was telling his expulsion story, but Gerry just pulled a pack of Marlboros from his blazer pocket, glaring all the while across the athletics field.

“You smoke?” Gerry asked, tapping a cigarette out of his pack.

“Yeah.” Michael lied. He’d barely had a sip of Harry’s whiskey, much less anything else.

Gerry looked at him with a quirked eyebrow, obviously skeptical.

Michael shrugged, “My mum keeps finding my packs, haven’t gotten around to buying more.”

Gerry kept his gaze on Michael for a half second, then shrugged, putting his cigarette in his mouth. “Sorry mate.” He pulled another stick from the pack and offered it to Michael. “Here.”

Michael stared at the cigarette.  _ What are you gonna do, you fucking idiot? You already told him you smoke. ‘Just kidding, I’m not in the mood.’? _ Glancing at Gerry’s face only made things worse, he had faint amusement painted over his features, like he was waiting for Michael to back out.

That, more than anything, was what spurred Michael on into taking the cigarette. He put it to his lips and had to lean down slightly for Gerry to light the end. Michael wasn’t sure when he was supposed to inhale, or by how much, or how long he was supposed to hold it. But Gerry had already turned his attention to the distant players on the rugby field.

_Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough_. The mantra chanted in Michael’s brain as he watched Gerry exhale a stream of smoke. He copied what Gerry did, breathe in, breathe out, and _oh god oh_ ** _fuck_** _that tastes awful_. The fact that he didn’t cough was a triumph, but he could feel his eyes sting and water at the burning sensation. He _really_ hoped Gerry wouldn’t look back and notice.

Gerry didn’t, just leaned against the worn stone wall, eventually sliding down it to sit on the grass among the assorted wrappers and cigarette butts already littering the weeds. Michael followed suit, acutely aware of his own limbs as he awkwardly folded himself into a seated position beside Gerry, lit cigarette held stiffly between two fingers.

Michael thought about the lunch he just ate and promptly took another drag to distract himself from the terrible thought that he might’ve eaten someone’s hair or nails or something worse today. He exhaled, and the taste of smoke was still awful, but he thought maybe it was something he could get used to. Or at least, he could get used to faking it. He followed Gerry’s gaze to the rugby players, just smears of bright green on the yellowing athletics field.

“That was disgusting.” Michael said suddenly. Gerry nodded.

“Teenagers are fucking demons.” He spat, and he probably meant it as a joke but there was real anger in his voice. “Anybody who ever wanted to look into hell ought to just take a peek inside the Magnus Institute. They’d run screaming.”

Michael knew it wasn’t really a joke, but he laughed anyway, “I don’t know,” He said, “Some stuff happened at my old school. Nothing to sneeze at.”

“Oh yeah?” Gerry said, turning to face Michael.

When Michael opened his mouth, he wasn’t expecting himself to tell the truth. He could make up stories at the drop of a hat, and did, often. But he didn’t this time. Something in Gerry’s stare and attention made him want to tell the truth. Which was terrifying in it’s own way.

“When I was in year nine, they had these uh, latched tables in the woodshop classroom.” Michael explained, “So you could take the top off and store your projects and stuff in there when class ended. But there were these big industrial latches on the outside, so that the top wouldn’t like, move around. And there was one table that no one ever used, it was sort of shoved off into the corner.” 

Michael watched his fingers shifting the fabric at the cuff of his trousers. “One time this girl, uh, I didn’t know her very well... b-but her name was Sarah or Sasha or something. She was always sort of quiet. I mean, I leant her my bug spray once? Uh, anyway.” Michael’s hands sped up a little, the friction from the fabric warming the tips of his fingers. “This other girl, I don’t remember her name, she uh, she and her friends locked Sasha in the table - the one nobody used - and then she… pretended to  _ be _ her, for the rest of the day. Like, she would respond when they called Sasha’s name for attendance, and write ‘Sasha’ on all her school assignments. And nobody noticed.”

“No one?” Gerry said, a furrow deepening his brow.

Michael shook his head, “She was always sort of quiet. Uh, and I guess no one found her until a couple hours after school let out. The custodian finally heard the banging, um, I guess none of the woodshop classes heard it over the power tools. So this guy finds her, packed into this table, just crying and screaming-”

“So what happened to her?” Gerry asked.

“Well at that point she’d sort of vomited all over herself, uh, because she - well she obviously didn’t have access to a lavatory so she’d shit herself a couple hours beforehand and the smell had-”

“No, not her, the other girl.” Gerry interrupted, “The one who did it.”

Michael coughed as if it would clear the sick feeling in his stomach. “Oh, um. I don’t - I don’t know. I never saw her again. Moved schools, probably.”

Gerry leaned back, took another drag of his cigarette. Michael did the same, fingers shaking a little.

“That’s fucked up.” Gerry said finally.

“Yeah.” Michael agreed quietly. And he remembered how the whole class had gone quiet the next day when Sasha came in. 

The girl who did it hadn’t moved schools. She’d gotten detention for the month, but she was still in class with everyone. Still surrounded by all her friends.

She’d grinned wide as Sasha walked to her desk, head down, shoulders hunched. She whispered something to the group behind her, and they’d all burst into muffled titters of laughter. Michael watched Sasha sit down at her desk, saw her wince a little bit at the pressure of the chair on the back of her legs. 

The skin was all blistered from the contact with the feces, and Michael only knew that because he wasn’t the only one who saw her wince. One of the kids in the back had stood up and jeered as much, and Sasha flinched so hard she sent her pencil case to the ground. 

Michael still remembered the sound when it hit, like a gunshot that sent the whole class into peals of laughter. Michael and Ryan and a few other kids were the only ones who stayed quiet, watching Sasha hunch into herself like she could fold herself into nonexistence, knowing acutely just how much it could’ve been them.

Michael had known in that instant that that was what all of life was going to be. He’d never seen a clearer vision of his future. 

That was it for people like him. People like Sasha. The ones who got singled out because they were too tall or too fat or too quiet or too weird. Beat up and held down and cut and bruised and called names and tormented, spat on just because you were there. Because you existed wrong.

And then you had to sit in a classroom with the same people who had tortured you. Who laughed because they had tortured you. Who bragged about having done so. And you would just have to bear the humiliation of it all. Every day. Always.

“Well, trust me,” Gerry stood up with a sigh and crushed the remains of his cigarette into the stone wall, adding another smear of grey to the pockmarked surface. Michael hurried to do the same. “It’s not any better here.”

~

Michael would not be spending his detention with Gerry, which was really the worst part of the whole situation.

They’d arrived together to Ms. Robinson’s office, where she would be instructing them to help with her, as Gerry called it,  _ ‘arcane file organization’ _ . But she sent Michael back out again only a few minutes later.

“I really only need one assistant with this, Michael.” She had explained kindly, “But I recall Mr. Sannikov needed a few things taken care of. You can go to him.”

Michael tried not to look too disappointed, but it must’ve shown, as Ms. Robinson gave him a sympathetic look.

“I know you want to be with Gerard,” She said, “But it wouldn’t be much of a punishment if you were allowed to spend time with a co-conspirator.” Her mouth lifted just slightly in the corner, to show she had some humor about it.

Michael agreed, however reluctant, and left.

As the door closed he heard Gerry say, “Uh, Gertrude, what-” before he was cut off entirely.

It was just like Gerry, Michael thought to himself, faintly giddy, to refer to his favoured teachers by their first names. Simultaneously a sign of disrespect and familiarity. He imagined for just a moment, a world where Michael Shelley was cool or confident enough to do the same, but dismissed it just as quickly. That would never happen.

Michael decided to take a shortcut through the courtyard to get to the wing of the building Mr. Sannikov’s room was. It was actually a fairly straight shot, without Gerry’s route that detoured to the toilets.

“Hey!”

The shout sounded from across the courtyard, harsh and angry.

Against all logic and better judgement, Michael turned around.

Storming towards him, fists clenched and legs moving faster than he would’ve thought possible, was a furious-looking Jude Perry.

He felt a familiar, nervous sensation, one that went all the way back to primary school. The simultaneous realization that he may have set himself up for a fistfight, and that he had not spent any time learning to fight since the last one.

_ You should run about this. _ Came a surprisingly calm thought. 

After all, Michael had known since that morning that Jude would be coming for him. It probably wouldn’t be impossible to lose her. Michael wasn’t exactly the fastest runner in the world, but he had the leg to make up for his lack of coordination. If he managed to evade her enough times, she’d probably give up eventually.

_ You should run. _

Michael didn’t move.

_ You should run, Michael. _

He stayed where he was.

It was a strange sensation, watching Jude come ever closer with utter rage painted across her face. He could guess what was about to happen. And he could guess that it wouldn’t be pleasant. Yet it was like he was watching the scene play outside of himself. Like the threat of imminent pain wasn’t quite as important as the opportunity to watch it happen.

Then Jude was driving her knee into his solar plexus with a brutal viciousness that, against all odds, was sort of surprising. Michael didn’t have the air knocked out of him so much as had his breath evacuated from his lungs.

His body reacted in the predictable route, doubling over with a gasp. Jude, expecting this, took the opportunity to slam her forehead into his nose so hard Michael saw stars.

The pain distracted him from the fact that he had tripped pretty spectacularly onto his ass. His first clue was the pain between his shoulder blades as his back connected with the concrete.

“-wispy fucking prick.” Jude was saying somewhere above him. He heard her make a spitting noise, beyond the pounding in his head and the pain in his face, and was somewhat hopeful it hadn’t landed on him. “Tell your boyfriend to keep his pasty nose out of other people’s business, got it?”

The courtyard had gone silent. There was none of the gleeful animosity that encouraged the fight in the canteen earlier. Probably because there wasn’t really a fight in this instance. Jude had wiped the floor with him in about four seconds flat. The image of it occurred to Michael - even as he clutched his bruised nose on the concrete - as pretty funny.

The idea that he’d just sort of stood there as someone half his size stormed up and sent him sprawling to the ground was actually… it played in his mind like a slapstick routine. Complete with the jaunty little musical notes.

A shoe kicked sharply into his ankle, Michael winced at the impact.

“The fuck are you laughing at?” Jude demanded, but didn’t seem keen on the answer, “I’d better not see your face after today, got it?”

Michael was pretty sure he made some semblance of a nod, because there was the telltale footsteps of Jude stomping away. 

The pain in his nose throbbed across his browbone and in his eye sockets. He sat up slowly to run a hand under his nostrils and glance down, there was a tiny spot of blood on his knuckle, but it wasn’t like it was gushing or anything, so it was probably fine.

The wet patch on the knee of his trousers told him that Jude had not missed when she spat on him. Which was a little unfortunate. He didn’t exactly love the idea of having another person’s spit on his clothes for the rest of the day.

When he looked up, everyone was putting quite a bit of effort into  _ not _ staring at him. Which meant each amused or cringing glance was that much worse. They were all very aware of him, but didn’t want to acknowledge it, had already gone back to their own business, paying him no mind. He stood up awkwardly, face burning with pain and embarrassment, and tried to pretend like the rest of them that nothing had even happened.

His eye caught on one of the windows.

There was a figure stood, silhouetted by the lights inside, and close enough to the window that there was no way they hadn’t seen the whole thing. That they weren’t still watching.

Michael watched them right back, squinting as if he might find any discernible features, ignoring the part of him that began to panic at the thought of a figure in the dark.

Something warm and wet dripped from his nose, and Michael jerked his gaze down to try and mitigate the small stain of blood that had fallen onto his jumper.

When he looked again, the figure was gone. As if it had never been there in the first place. He couldn’t tell which room the figure had been standing in, not from the outside.

Michael tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t unnerved.

He shrugged his shoulders, as if he could force nonchalance by going through the motions of it, and drew his hand under his nose again, sniffing.

It was nothing. It didn’t matter.

But something needled at Michael the rest of the walk up to Mr. Sannikov’s room. Something he knew, but refused to name. Refused to give shape.

Something about figures in the dark. Something about being followed. Something about seeing things that weren’t there.

_ I’m losing it. _

“No I’m not.” Michael said aloud, and then immediately regretted, glancing around him quickly to make sure no one had heard.

He resolved never to tell anyone. Better yet, forget about it entirely.

He knocked on Mr. Sannikov’s door.

Mr. Sannikov pulled it open immediately, like he had been on his way out at the same moment.

“Oh,” Michael said in surprise, and felt a nervous smile creep onto his face. “Afternoon.”

“Afternoon, Michael.” Mr. Sannikov said, and it was perfectly ordinary, except for the way he said ‘afternoon’, like he was parroting Michael’s in its entirety. The cadence and the inflection.

It sort of felt like Mr. Sannikov was making fun of him.

“Uh,” Michael continued, realizing that Mr. Sannikov was obviously waiting for him to state his business, “M-Ms. Robinson sent me to, uh… detention. She said you needed help taking care of some things?” He could feel the pull of that nervous smile on his cheeks.

Mr. Sannikov stood, assessing, before nodding his head amicably and stepping aside to let Michael in, “Of course,” He said, “Come on in.”

Michael did, dismissing his irrational jump of panic as excess nerves when Mr. Sannikov shut the door behind him.

“Detention.” Mr. Sannikov was saying, “Didn’t you only just get here?”

“It wasn’t really my idea.” Michael replied quickly, not wanting to seem like a problem child. Gerry pulled it off well, but it would not look good on Michael.

Mr. Sannikov made a vague gesture towards Michael’s face, “I’m guessing that wasn’t your idea either.”

Michael’s hand instinctively rose to his nose where a bruise was surely forming. It still hurt. “W-what did you want help with, again?” Michael asked, adjusting his bag self consciously.

Mr. Sannikov gave Michael a reassuring smile and didn’t answer the question, instead pulling a chair from its desk and setting it down in the small open floor space at the back of the room.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He said.

Michael did so, slowly, “Was it - did you have… files you needed to organize or-?”

“Are you familiar with any modern philosophers, Michael?” Mr. Sannikov asked.

“Um.” Michael replied, holding his bag in his lap nervously, “Like, uh, Locke?”

Mr. Sannikov stared at him for a long moment, unreadable. Michael gripped the straps of his bag like some kind of lifeline. Anxiety built up in his chest, and he got a feeling like he was approaching a cliff’s edge with startling speed - Mr. Sannikov was about to ask him philosophy questions, and it would soon become very clear that Michael hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention in his class, he’d just read the name ‘John Locke’ on the chalkboard and hoped for the best.

“Precisely.” Mr. Sannikov said, smiling as if Michael was a particularly bright student, and not deeply confused, “And what do you think of his theories? Specifically the differing perceptions of what he called ‘secondary qualities’?”

“Uh,” Michael was sweating, “Honestly,” He lied, “It seemed a little… convoluted?”

Mr. Sannikov let out a bark of laughter, quick as a gunshot, Michael winced a little at the noise. “Exactly, exactly. Empiricism is rubbish, as if primary and secondary qualities could be separated in any way.”

Michael nodded along, attempting to look like he knew what Mr. Sannikov was talking about.

“I’ve been writing something for a few years,” Mr. Sannikov began to explain, “And I’d like your input, Michael. I imagine it’ll be much more interesting than spending your detention cleaning erasers or scraping gum off of chairs, wouldn’t you say?”

“Er, s-sure.” Michael said hesitantly.

“Despite Locke’s ideas about empiricism, I do think his concept of  _ tabula rasa _ was fairly on the mark. Do you agree?”

Michael nodded a little, not knowing what he was agreeing to.

Mr. Sannikov had begun walking in a very slow circle around Michael’s chair, continuing to speak as Michael craned his neck to see him.

“A clean slate is very important for the development of ideas, I need input from young people like yourself. Still fresh to the ways of the world, and still able to be shaped in one way or another. So, Michael.”

He’d circled back around to standing in front of Michael, looming rather tall over where he was sitting in his chair, and pulled a pen from his front shirt pocket. Mr. Sannikov held the pen out in front of Michael’s face and said,

“Does this pen exist?”

Michael blinked, glancing between the pen in front of him and Mr. Sannikov’s face.

“... Yes?” He replied, as if it were a question.

Mr. Sannikov asked immediately, “How do you know?”

“I…” Michael felt ridiculous, “Because… it’s right there. I-I can see it.”

“Oh?” Mr. Sannikov took the pen away and with a small step backward, hid it behind his back. “How about now?”

“I mean, you’ve just - I know where it is, it’s in your hand.” Michael said.

Mr. Sannikov held out both his hands to either side, open and empty, and raised his eyebrows.

“Well, you must’ve put it in your pocket or something.” Michael said, “I don’t - I still know it exists. I saw it, you held it.”

“You saw it,” Mr. Sannikov repeated slowly, “So, your senses are the marker with which you determine reality.”

“I… guess so?” Michael said, “I mean, if it looks like a pen and writes like a pen…?”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Sannikov hummed, “But what about when your senses give you false information?”

Michael frowned, “F-false information-?”

“Your senses play tricks on you all the time,” Mr. Sannikov said, “Sit in an awkward position for too long and you experience a feeling of pins and needles, despite nothing actually touching you. Room temperature water can feel hot on your hands if you’ve just come in from the cold. You could see a familiar face in a crowd for an instant before realizing your eyes have misinterpreted a stranger.”

Michael blinked, not really comprehending.

“The point of philosophy,” Mr. Sannikov explained, “Is to never accept the world at face value. There may always be hidden information that we can’t perceive or understand yet. Allegory of the cave.”

“Allegory of the-?” Michael repeated.

“An old story, written by Plato.” Mr. Sannikov clarified. Michael was pretty sure he’d heard of it, but couldn’t recall what it had to do with anything. Luckily, Mr. Sannikov seemed to enjoy talking about it.

“To put it simply, it is about prisoners in the depths of a cave, completely unable to see the outside world, their only baseline for the entire world is the shadows that the sun projects onto the cave wall. For these prisoners, shadows are all there is, and the only way they are able to interpret reality. Until one day, one of the prisoners breaks free of his chains and escapes the cave, and finally experiences the outside world. There are colours, light, three dimensions, all things he had up until this point no comprehension of. Everything he believed to be true was only an outline of reality.

“When he returns to the cave, he tries to describe what he’s seen to his fellow prisoners, but without any conception of what he’s talking about, his fellow prisoners think he’s lost his mind. You can’t describe colour, for instance, to someone who’s never seen it. And, because his eyes had adjusted to the light outside of the cave, he was temporarily blinded when he returned, so in the prisoners’ eyes, he’d been damaged by his time outside the cave, for he was no longer able to see the shadows that made up their limited understanding of reality.”

Mr. Sannikov turned his attention to Michael in a way that was distinctly anticipatory and extremely uncomfortable. “Do you know what Plato was saying with this story?”

Michael frantically searched for an answer, “Um, that things aren’t always what they seem?”

“ _ Yes _ , precisely, very good.” Mr. Sannikov confirmed, and Michael felt something in him flutter a little at the praise. “Plato was asking the question; ‘is what I experience as reality really real at all?’ We are all right now prisoners in a cave of our own. Our mistake is believing the material objects in our world to be the  _ most real _ thing.” Mr. Sannikov produced the pen once again, holding it out with gravity, “So is this pen really even a pen at all? Or is it just an outline - a shadow - of a higher reality we cannot yet comprehend?”

“Right,” Michael said, “Like how people thought the world was flat.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Sannikov agreed, eyes alight, “Until that version of reality was proven to be false. Along with the sun revolving around the earth and other such falsities. You must approach everything with the knowledge that much of what you’ve always believed might actually be false.”

“So… the pen exists… maybe?” Michael concluded.

“Yes, yes, you’re very quick at this, you know?” Mr. Sannikov remarked, “But of course, Plato is also saying something else with the story.” His voice turned grave, “Because the prisoner returns, and the prisoner tries to share his new knowledge, and he fails, because he cannot explain comprehension to those who do not possess it. There is an isolation in reaching a higher reality that no one else has seen or heard of.”

Mr. Sannikov trailed off a little, staring into the middle distance, “A pain, too. You can be damaged, when you try to step outside your own perceptions.” He said quietly, as if to himself. Then, he cleared his throat quickly, and fixed his gaze upon Michael again, “So, Michael. I’d like to have a few philosophical discussions with you, to get your input and your perspective on the work.”

“Uh, okay.” Michael said, actually feeling a little excited at the prospect. He’d never really felt good at anything academic before, but Mr. Sannikov’s enthusiasm made him think maybe he could do this.

“Perfect,” Mr. Sannikov said, “So; George Berkeley. Have you heard of him?”

Michael, immediately feeling stupid again, shook his head a little.

Mr. Sannikov paid it no mind, and just explained, “In quick summary, he theorized that there  _ is _ no reality. Only perceptions. No objects, only perceivers. And when you stop perceiving something, it ceases to exist.”

“So like,” Michael wondered, “That whole, uh, ‘if a tree falls in a forest’ thing?”

“Exactly like that. And Berkeley of course used this theory to try and prove the existence of God, being the ultimate perceiver. The only reason we can continue to exist, even while sleeping and therefore unable to perceive ourselves, is that God is watching all of us all the time. Until death, of course.”

“Oh,” Michael furrowed his brow, “But that’s… stupid.”

Mr. Sannikov laughed again, that harsh bark of laughter that never stopped making Michael jump. “And why is it stupid?” He asked.

And he… genuinely seemed to want to know. Like Michael’s opinion actually mattered to him. Like it made a difference.

“Well I mean,” Michael said, “He basically has to be wrong, right? Like I guess there’s no way to disprove it, you know. There’s no way to prove or disprove that God exists, or that we’re all living in a dream, or that we’re all… you know, game pieces in Jesus and Satan’s backgammon game. But our only experience of the world is through our senses, so like, things can’t just be winking in and out of existence at the drop of a hat, right? The tree falling in the forest produces, you know, soundwaves. So even if no one is around to hear it, it still has a measure of… sway on reality, right?”

Mr. Sannikov was silent for a very long moment, and Michael worried for half a moment whether he’d said something completely idiotic, when Mr. Sannikov suddenly grinned big and wide. “ _ Yes _ ,” He said emphatically, “Yes, Michael, that’s exactly right.”

Michael felt a tiny mirroring smile twitch onto his face.

“So,” Mr. Sannikov said, twirling the pen in his hand, before very quickly turning and  _ throwing _ it with extreme force out the window.

“Uh,” Michael said.

“Now, neither of us can see it, neither of us can touch it, neither of us knows exactly where it’s gone, but we’re both in agreement that it  _ exists _ , yes?”

“... Yes.” Michael replied.

“The pen doesn’t simply disappear,” Mr. Sannikov smiled, “So far as you know. It stays existing because you believe it exists, and you believe it will continue to do so, even if you aren’t looking directly at it.”

Michael chewed his lip in thought for a moment, “So, belief… is what makes things real. Not their inherent reality.”

He didn’t think Mr. Sannikov could look more excited than he’d been, but he managed it somehow. “Yes, there you are! It’s all about what you believe in, especially when it comes to concepts that are improvable. And if everything is make-believe, do you know what that’s called?”

“Um, nihilism?” Michael tried.

“No,” Mr. Sannikov said, then amended, “Close, but no. It’s not a doubt in  _ mattering _ , but a doubt in  _ reality _ . Whether anything matters in the grand face of the universe is irrelevant, it’s all in the perception of the thing. We’re all existing in a co-operative form of reality, where nothing can actually be  _ proven _ , but everything is believed in.”

Michael tried to process this, feeling like his brain was folding in on itself a little. “Like... one big collective dream. Where nothing is real but also… reality is what you make of it.” He said, mostly to himself.

“And the  _ collective  _ part is where things get interesting.” Mr. Sannikov said, “The influence we have on reality, based purely on the influence we have on other people. The illusions we all show to ourselves and each other as a mere facsimile of reality. Time, for example. Units of measurement. Good and evil. The concept of God. All fabricated for ourselves and each other and stitched together with that gossamer thread of  _ belief _ .”

Michael thought about it, and immediately his mind went to that cold night with Ryan, right before he died. The things Michael said to the police officers, hysterical and panicked.

“Do you think…” Michael started, trying to figure out how to word it, “If everyone believes in something enough, it sort of… becomes true? Like, with the unprovable things. God and all that.”

Mr. Sannikov hummed, “It influences our perception of reality, which is a certain measure of truth.”

Michael took a breath, “Like, if you saw something that you  _ know _ was real, but everyone else says you didn’t, does it… Can it change things, retroactively? Like, if you doubt something enough, because everyone tells you it’s a lie, can that change… you know, what actually happened?”

“Are you talking about hallucinations?” Mr. Sannikov asked.

“No,” Michael said quickly, and then “Maybe,” before he could stop it from slipping out. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“The trick with hallucinations,” Mr. Sannikov said, “Is that they are still, in a sense,  _ real _ . Despite the term. They may not exist to everyone, but so long as they exist to one person, and have an effect on that one person, they do possess a certain form of reality.”

Michael bit the inside of his cheek, doing his best not to think of Ryan, not to think of words like  _ schizophrenia  _ or  _ delusion _ . “No, I mean, like… I just. I saw… something. And I was sure of it - what I was looking at - at the time. But the more, uh, time passes, and the further I get away from it I… don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I’m doubting it now.”

Mr. Sannikov looked concerned, now, stepping towards Michael, “What did you see?”

Michael shook his head, “Nobody believes it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s crazy.” Michael didn’t mean to speak so quietly, but it was the kind of sound that echoed in the quiet.

Mr. Sannikov didn’t reply.

Michael ran his hand under his nose again, the drying blood making it feel crusty. “People don’t believe me anyway. Whatever I say. It doesn’t matter.”

“What you say matters here.” Mr. Sannikov said, gentle and calm, “Trust me, I’ll know when you’re lying.”

Somehow it felt like a warning, just as much as it was a reassurance.

“I… saw something. When my…” Michael struggled with the words, before finally, “Ryan didn’t kill himself.”

He expected Mr. Sannikov to look at him with confusion, with pity. To gently tell him that he was just confused, just distraught, that his imagination came up with something to obscure the truth in order to shield him from it.

But Mr. Sannikov just leaned forward a little, like he wanted to get closer. To hear more.

“He was… I think he was murdered.” Michael said, whisper-choked and holding back. “I saw… I don’t know what I saw. But it was something.” Michael had drawn his feet up to the chair, knees crushing his bag into his chest, as if he could fold himself out of reality. Make himself smaller just by wanting it. He’d just get smaller and smaller, and it might end, in his going out altogether, like a candle.

He wondered what the flame looked like after the candle was blown out.

“What did you see?” Mr. Sannikov asked, a seriousness in his tone that Michael hadn’t heard before.

Michael just shrugged, throat having closed up around itself.

“Michael,” Mr. Sannikov said, and Michael felt a hand place itself onto his shoulder, heavy and direct. “Have you told this to anyone?”

Michael shook his head slightly. He’d tried, back when it happened. To explain himself, even though he hadn’t really known what he was explaining. 

He managed to force out an idea, though, the person he actually sort of wanted to tell, if only because she seemed no nonsense and responsible and if  _ she _ believed him then maybe everything would be okay. He remembered her sincerity when she’d told him this was her job.

“M-Ms. Robinson would…” He trailed off.

“Would what?” Mr. Sannikov prompted, “How do you think she’d react, if you told her?”

Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Would she help you, do you think?”

“I don’t… maybe?” Michael tried.

“Or would she try to get you help?”

Michael stared at his shoes. It was the most likely scenario, wasn’t it? Ms. Robinson would believe him only so much as she would assume he was crazy.

_ I believe that  _ **_you_ ** _ believe you saw something.  _

“No,” Mr. Sannikov said gently, “I’m sorry Michael, but you’d set yourself up for disappointment. She’s just the same as everyone else.”

Michael didn’t understand how he could be so sure, “What?” He asked, voice coming out thready and confused.

Mr. Sannikov said, “She’s far too much of an adult to really believe you. Old people are the ash heap of youth.” He spoke the last words with just the slightest hint of venom.

Michael got the very odd sense that Mr. Sannikov was speaking from experience.

And the thing was, he was probably right.

No one believed Michael. Because he was a liar, because he had no evidence, because it was much easier to believe in a tragedy rather than a threat. Michael had nothing but the desire for Ms. Robinson to listen to him, even when he knew she would brush him off like everyone else.

“It’s very lonely, I know.” Mr. Sannikov said, “People never listen to anything, especially not to children. They mark it off in little boxes, label people as mentally ill, and weed them out from all the regular people. It’s cruel, to lock away what you don’t understand without nurturing or shaping it properly. It’s because adults are too scared to care, they don’t want to, they’ll do everything they can not to. You don’t have to worry about that here, Michael.”

Michael, admittedly, felt a little indignant about being referred to as a child, but couldn’t say anything past a wave of gratefulness that choked him once again. His shoulder felt itchy beneath Sannikov’s warm hand. Like pins and needles.

“Every other adult is far too adult. Don’t worry, I understand.”

And it was so reassuring, Mr. Sannikov’s gentle words. Like he really believed them. Like he really knew what it was like.

Michael felt seen in a way that was almost uncomfortable. As if he was being perceived after spending so long in utter nonexistence.

“What do you think it’s like?” Michael asked.

“What’s what like?”

“Being crazy. Mentally ill.” He’d wondered it, ever since Ryan died. If maybe he could’ve done something, if only he’d known what was happening.

Mr. Sannikov hummed in contemplation. Michael looked up, having to crane his neck to see Mr. Sannikov’s face. He was stood directly in front of Michael’s chair, hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“Well they never know they’re ill, do they?” Mr. Sannikov said, “You can’t diagnose yourself with the same organ that has the disease, just like you can’t see your own eyeball. So, I suppose you just feel normal, and the rest of the world seems to go crazy around you.”

Somehow, that felt more terrifying than anything else.

~

Harry laid on the horn from the moment Michael left the building until the moment Michael finally got inside the car.

“What the hell happened to you?” Harry asked as soon as he shut the door.

The bruise on Michael’s nose had bloomed a purplish red over the past few hours. He’d prodded at it in the bathroom a bit before coming outside. The skin around his eyes was tender, the bone at his nose bridge ached. 

“Got in a fight.” Michael said plainly.

Harry guffawed in disbelief. “Should I be seeing the other guy?”

Michael shrugged.

“Is this what you got detention for then, getting in fights?” Harry was speaking sternly now, the voice he put on when he wanted Michael to tell him something.

“Yeah,” Michael said, because it was easier than trying to explain he’d dropped a bucket on Jude Perry’s head that morning.

Harry was quiet for a long moment, waiting for Michael to explain. When Michael didn’t, he grunted, started the car, and pulled out of the drive.

“Well did you win then?” Harry asked, and like all his questions, it came out as a demand.

Michael exhaled a heavy lungful of air.

“C’mon,” Harry shoved Michael’s shoulder, sending him swaying into the car door, “Did you thump him up? Give him a piece of your mind? Can’t imagine any kid in his right mind going after you, looking like you do.”

“She was half my size.” Michael said, because sometimes the truth was just funnier, “She hit me so hard my nose went in my brain.”

That made Harry stop. And Michael didn’t look over to see his reaction, too tired by the rest of the day.

“Well.” Harry said finally, as if he had somewhere to go with it. After a moment he repeated, “Well.” Then followed it up with, “If it was a girl I hope you didn’t hit her back.”

Michael tried to sink down in the seat, but his knees always got crammed against the dashboard. “Not like she gave me a chance to.” Michael mumbled.

“You didn’t hit her back, did you?” Harry demanded.

“ _ No _ , Harry.” Michael bit out.

“Good,” Harry said, nodding to himself. “Good. That’d be the last thing I need. The kid under my roof getting ‘ _ me too _ ’d.” He nodded again, frowning. “The last thing I need.”

Michael turned his gaze to the window. Harry had some very loud opinions about feminism. Michael didn’t want to encourage him by explaining that fighting his female classmate had very little, if anything, to do with the Me Too movement.

Harry, not given the conversational rope with which to hang everyone around him, switched tack. He put a hand on Michael’s head in what could’ve generously been called a fatherly gesture.

“Should take you down to the barber’s.” Harry commented, “Give all this a chop.” He tugged at Michael’s hair.

Michael hummed, noncommittal. Secretly hoping Harry wouldn’t try to follow through with that.

Michael hadn’t gotten a haircut since before Ryan died. He had kept it - or rather, Harry had kept it - in a strict crew cut for the better part of seven years. Now, after two months without, it grew wild and untamed, constantly falling in his eyes, tickling his ears, brushing the back of his neck. It turned out that his hair had a fair bit of curl to it. 

He sort of liked it.

He remembered his mum had long golden ringlets down past her shoulders. He remembered she used to twist a lock around her finger when she was reading the newspaper. He remembered running his hands through it in the bath once, picking out bits of dirt and grime with his small fingers. She’d been on a downswing for a few weeks, he was pretty sure. Didn’t have the energy to wash it herself.

She had cut it all off in a frenzy a few days later. Too much work, she said, and then repeated with each cut. Too much work. Michael remembered crying about it at the time, even though she hated when he cried, trying to pick up curled pieces from the bathroom floor. He wasn’t sure now if he’d been crying because he’d loved her hair, or if it was because she was being too clumsy with the scissors, nicking her scalp and staining the remaining tufts with lines of bright red. She hadn’t noticed the pain, though she must’ve noticed the blood.

Head-wounds tend to bleed a lot.

Michael considered what Mr. Sannikov said. If the whole situation had seemed perfectly normal to his mum. If it was him, crying on the bathroom floor, that was acting strange for her. Or if it was the opposite - if every single thing already made no sense at all, so there was no way to differentiate the confusion.

Michael didn’t think he was crazy.

But really, he wouldn’t have any idea either way, would he?

They spent the rest of the drive in silence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who commented on the last few chapters!
> 
> CW’s FOR CHAPTER 3 (may contain spoilers): underage smoking; insensitive joking about lung cancer; underage drinking; vague discussion of suicide; discussion of murder; vague descriptions of gorey imagery; panic attacks

Michael’s days began to pass in strange waves of good and bad.

After Ryan died, and before Michael had started at the Magnus Institute, it felt like the whole world was just a mess of grey. Every day was the exact same. Every moment simultaneously too long, and gone in an instant.

Now though, there were waves. Cresting every time he got to see Gerry, which were the mornings, lunches, and a little time before and after detention. 

At least, on the days Gerry actually showed up. Michael supposed it was rather in-line with Gerry's rebellious persona, but unfortunately against Michael's vague hopes that he would be able to use Gerry to eat up all his free time. But every once in a while Gerry would be very much absent. On those days Michael did his best not to draw attention from anyone.

Those days, classes were a dull fog, and detention with Mr. Sannikov was-

Michael wasn’t sure how he would describe it.

All he knew was that after he left Mr. Sannikov’s classroom, he’d do his best to put it out of his mind.

It wasn’t even that their discussions veered too far into the existential. It was just that the attention Mr. Sannikov paid to him was… almost unnerving. It warred with the gratefulness Michael felt in its presence. There was a discomfort to being given such an explicit stage. Especially when every other adult Michael had ever come in contact with seemed more eager to be rid of him than they wanted to speak with him.

It was probably just the novelty of it that made Michael want to cringe away. The rarity of it.

“Nah, Mr. Sannikov’s a proper oddball.” Gerry said, when Michael attempted to explain. “I heard he went on like, a ten year soul-searching trip before becoming a teacher.”

“Really?” Michael asked, baffled, unable to imagine the tweed-clad and round-faced Mr. Sannikov as a particularly well-traveled person.

“After he got out of prison in Russia, yeah.” Gerry got this funny look on his face as he told the story, like he didn’t really believe what he was saying, but knew it sounded cool. “People say they only let him go because he wouldn’t stop gutting his cellmates and guards - used their insides to finger-paint the walls.”

Michael recoiled, “That’s not true.” He gawked.

“Of course it’s not,” Gerry said, “He’s just got one foot out of reality at like, all times. You can get him on a tangent  _ so  _ easy.” And then remarked, “He sort of looks like you, actually.”

“What?” Michael started.

“Not like - uh,” Gerry seemed to realize what he’d said, and was trying to backtrack to something complimentary, “Not like that. He’s just got that  _ look _ , y’know? Like he’s seen some shit.”

Michael didn’t know he looked like he’d seen some shit. And for a moment, hated that he was so obvious. In the next moment he dismissed it entirely, or tried to, anyway. More like he made the executive decision not to think about it.

Gerry, gem that he was, had already changed the subject for him, “You said he’s interpreting your dreams, now?”

“Yeah, it’s so weird,” Michael said, settling into a more comfortable rhythm, “First he asks me if I’ve ever had one of those dreams, like, where your alarm goes off, but in the couple moments you’re still asleep the noise shows up in the dream, and for that half second it totally makes sense.”

“I’ve had those,” Gerry said, “Yeah, when I was a kid I used to dream about my mum like, yelling at me for something. Then I’d wake up and I’d hear her downstairs,  _ still _ screaming.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Michael said. “I told him about this one dream I had, where I open the door and the house is being robbed. Like, I walk in and there’s these people all dressed in black, and one of them sees me and takes out a gun.” Michael raised a hand to demonstrate, arranging his pointer finger and thumb into the appropriate shape. “And he shoots me, like  _ bang bang bang _ ,” He depressed his thumb with each sound effect, “And the noise shocks me awake, and I realize Harry’s still pounding at my door, telling me I’m late.”

“So what’s his interpretation?” Gerry kicked at a crumpled beer can at his feet, “You don’t like being shot? Cheers, I’ll drink to that.”

“No no, like - it’s not that literal.” Michael tried to explain, “He says you’ve got to ask the scary questions.”

“Like what?”

“How did my mind know the knock was coming?” Michael asked, “The dream started thirty seconds before Harry banged on the door. So how did I know Harry would be coming, to coincide with the gunshots at the end?”

Gerry paused at that, like he was set a little off balance by the question. It was sort of relieving to see, because it threw Michael in much the same way.

“So…” Gerry began, “How  _ did  _ you know?”

Michael shrugged.

Gerry shoved him, “Oh, c’mon.” He said.

“Honestly,” Michael said with a grin, “Not sure. Mr. Sannikov says time is an ocean, not a garden hose. Like, while you’re dreaming things aren’t as linear as they are when you’re awake. Like a memory that works backward.”

Gerry raised his eyebrows and blew out a long breath. “A proper oddball.” He said decisively.

“Ha, yeah.” Michael agreed.

Gerry wasn’t quite as blown away by the whole concept as Michael had been. But that was alright. Mr. Sannikov did say certain philosophical questions weren’t for everyone, and from the way he acted, Michael was taking to it all exceptionally well.

He knew he shouldn’t feel so proud about being more attuned than Gerry. But, he reasoned. Gerry was already better than him at basically everything. One point of exceptionalism couldn’t hurt.

He also hadn’t told Gerry a few of the details.

Like the way Mr. Sannikov had said, “Your dreams are trying to tell you something. Giving you a demonstration.” as if it was a warning.

He also didn’t mention that he’d dreamed of a rooftop, not a house.

Or that Michael had been the one holding the gun.

Gerry, on the days he attended, sat with him on a bench outside the school after detention, as Michael waited for Harry to come pick him up. And it was nice to talk, to spend time with a person who really didn’t know anything about him.

Michael was very careful about not disturbing that. He wondered, of course, why Gerry never seemed in a rush to get home. Where Gerry went when he was absent. Why Gerry seemed so determined to be Michael’s friend. But he didn’t ask.

It felt precious, this growing thing. Like calm waters.

They smoked, sometimes. Michael only occasionally bummed cigarettes from Gerry, but mostly begged off. The taste was awful, but the feeling of smoking together was something almost like camaraderie. Like Michael could fool himself into believing he was the kind of person who could smoke with Gerard Keay after school, instead of the person Michael actually was.

One time he reached out for the pack, and Gerry just handed it to him like it was nothing. Michael put the unlit cigarette between his lips and inspected the packaging with morbid fascination.

There was an image of an emaciated woman laid in a hospital bed plastered all over it, her skin grey and sallow, arms thin as twigs where they jutted out from her hospital gown. Her head looked huge in comparison to her empty neck, like she was a skeletal grey baby. Beneath the image was her name, her age, and a big fat warning about the dangers of lung cancer.

Gerry reached over and lit Michael’s cigarette, arm warm where it rested against Michael’s shoulder, before pulling back to light his own. Despite having a cancer stick in his mouth at the very same moment he was staring at it, the act of smoking felt surprisingly disconnected from the corpse on the package.

Instead Michael held up the pack to Gerry and said, “Do you think she was flattered?”

Gerry blew out a cloud of acrid smoke and said, “What?”

“Obviously, y’know, she got cancer and everything,” Michael said, “But do you think she was a  _ little  _ bit like, ‘oh shit! I’m going to be famous!’”

Gerry guffawed a very surprised sort of sound, the kind where he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh.

“It’s a bit like a magazine, isn’t it? Cigarettes.” Michael said with a grin, “All her mates buy ‘em, everybody sees the photos - I’ll bet you there’s at least one person burning through twelve packs a day hoping to get on the cover.”

Gerry actually did start laughing then, hiding his face a little in his elbow.

Michael smiled wide, “Keeps calling the hospital like, ‘Is it cancer yet? It’s not?  _ Shit _ !’ Could you imagine the drama if one of her mates was like, trying to get on the packet, but she ended up beating him to it? He’s lying there, breathing through a hole in his throat, and all he’s thinking is, ‘ _ fuck  _ you Debora’.”

“I don’t think a lot of people look at the warning labels,” Gerry said, smile still on his face, glancing at the pack for a moment before stuffing it back in his pocket, “It’s the same gross shit every time. You get desensitized.”

“I’m just saying you must get some street cred,” Michael said, “People always want to secure a legacy, don’t they?”

“Well,” Gerry said, “When we get cancer maybe they’ll let us share a photo.”

“So long as they get my good side.” Michael insisted, and giggled along with Gerry’s renewed laughter.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that Gerry might be expecting some reciprocation in the sharing of cigarettes, but Michael really had no clue how he would go about buying any. He probably owed Gerry a whole pack at this point.

The first time Gerry asked Michael to come with him to the pub, Michael said his most enthusiastic  _ ‘yes’ _ , while his thoughts screamed their most terrified  _ ‘no’ _ .

Michael had never tried to order alcohol. His wildest nights up until that point were spent playing video games in Ryan’s living room and drinking mountain dew until they puked.

He managed to keep it under wraps though. From calling Harry to say he’d take the bus home, to taking off his pullover and tie at Gerry’s instruction so he wasn’t so easily identifiable as a student, and all the way to the curb right before the pub doors.

That was when he started to fidget. So much that Gerry noticed.

“What’s wrong?” Gerry asked, brow furrowing.

“Well, uh,” Michael searched for the words that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete idiot, “It’s all just sort of, a bit… grown up, isn’t it?”

The look Gerry gave him told Michael that he had failed in not sounding like a complete idiot.

“N-not that I don’t think we should go in,” Michael said quickly, even though he really didn’t think they should go in, “It’s just that it’s all so, uh. I mean,” he had never been to a pub before, not to drink, anyway. “It’s sort of like, um-”

“Michael.” Gerry said flatly.

“Sorry.” Came the automatic response.

Michael couldn’t help but cringe as Gerry seemed to survey him, as if sizing him up to determine whether he was good enough to be coerced into underage alcohol consumption. Part of Michael hoped that Gerry would drop it, that they could go back to hanging out at the park and talk more about all the badass music Gerry probably listened to. A much larger and much more desperate part of Michael was pleading with any and all forces at work that Gerry would deem him good enough to be coerced into underage alcohol consumption.

But, Michael’s mouth betrayed him.

“I’m eighteen in a few months, w-we could just wait until then.” Michael said, only a little pleadingly.

Gerry stopped at that. “You’re eighteen soon?” He asked, confused. “But... you’re in year twelve.”

Michael stalled too. “I was held back a year after my mum died.” He said.

He was, of course, lying. He hadn’t been held back. His mum wasn’t even dead, to his knowledge. But he didn’t want to tell Gerry that his mum had pulled him out of school when he was five for reasons that he still didn’t quite understand. Michael also remembered that as around the time his mum started to get really bad. Though he hadn’t noticed back then. At the time, he just liked spending all day with her.

He’d been ‘homeschooled’ in the loosest possible sense of the word, in that he hadn’t really been taught anything at all. Michael liked the amusement park, so his mum would take him there almost every day - sneaking him in through a hole in the parking lot fence - and they would go on whatever rides Michael wanted, which were usually the slow and easy ones. He remembered his mum shooing the pigeons away from a half-finished basket of chips someone had left so that Michael could eat them for lunch.

When the government got involved and Michael began his three year stint in foster care, they gave him an aptitude test and determined he would be best suited to year two instead of the year three that everyone else his age had been enrolled in.

Michael didn’t want to tell Gerry all that.

But after saying his mum was dead, Gerry’s face fell into an expression that was perhaps one part sadness but two parts, horrifyingly,  _ understanding _ . “Oh,” Gerry said quietly, “I’m sorry.” 

The guilt was immediate.

So distracting, in fact, that Michael barely registered following Gerry into the pub and sitting down across from him at a corner booth. The lightbulb above the table had burnt out, leaving their corner dimmer than the already dim lit pub.

It was… dingier, than Michael had perhaps expected. But he supposed when Gerry said he knew a place that didn’t card, he was probably not talking about the most reputable establishment.

Michael kept his hands under the table, so he could fidget unseen.

A waitress came to their table, looking tired and apathetic. Michael was so nervous he just stared at the table while Gerry ordered for both of them, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying anything dumb. He wanted to. He really did. It was like the words were bubbled up inside him. Pressurized air fighting to escape.

“My mum’s dead too.” Gerry said suddenly.

The air evaporated immediately, and Michael felt like the world’s biggest idiot. “Oh?” He replied stupidly.

“Yeah.” Gerry nodded, looked out the window. “‘Bout a year ago.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology had sounded so much more convincing when Gerry said it.

Gerry worried at his lip with his teeth a little, eyes still fixed on the street outside. He seemed nervous. Or conflicted. “Yeah.” He said again, “Yeah, it was sort of a relief, really?” And his voice got a little thready, a little strained. The way people talk when they’re a few steps away from crying.

Michael’s nerves were lighting themselves on fire in panic. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say, or what he was supposed to do. But opening his stupid mouth seemed like a very poor idea, so he kept it firmly closed, instead making a humming noise that he hoped came across as gentle concern.

“She wasn’t - she didn’t - ugh,” Gerry swiped at his nose in frustration, and the panic in Michael mounted, if Gerry started crying, he might actually lose it. “She wasn’t like, a good mum.” Gerry said, “And I knew that. I  _ know _ that. She was-” He laughed humourlessly, “She was a real piece of shit to me, actually. To everyone. But I - I thought I’d be happy when she finally bit it. And I was, maybe. A little. Mostly I wasn’t expecting her to fucking kill herself but-”

Gerry made a noise that felt like it reached deep into Michael’s chest and  _ pulled _ .

Waving his hand dismissively, Gerry tried for a lighter tone, “Anyway, sorry. Didn’t mean to make it all about me. It’s complicated, I’m sure your mum was fine.”

“She wasn’t.” Michael said, and when Gerry finally looked at him it felt like cool water on a wound.

Michael opened his mouth, and found that, for Gerry, he wanted to tell the truth.

Michael wanted to tell Gerry about his mum. About how he loved her and how he knew she loved him back, and how sometimes love isn’t enough to stay together. About the weeks she was too exhausted to buy groceries and he would sit in the grass and eat weeds he was so hungry. About the time he spilled boiling water on his feet trying to make his own tea, too young to properly handle the pots, and how the blisters got infected because his mum didn’t trust hospitals. About the day the grim faced people in the pressed suits came to the door and dragged Michael to a car that smelled of leather and artificial mint while his mum screamed for him from their porch. He wanted to tell Gerry about how scared he’d been. How sad. How much he missed her.

_ “Don’t cry, Michael.” _ His mum had pleaded when they took him from the house.  _ “Darling, please don’t cry.” _

The words had come easy, when he’d told Gerry about what happened to Sasha. But now they stuck in his throat like rocks. 

It was much harder to be truthful about himself.

Instead, the words that came out were, “It’s like you said. Complicated.”

Gerry nodded like that was good enough, like he didn’t need to pry, like Michael was giving him anything at all.

Michael took his pint in hand and swallowed a large mouthful, trying not to gag at the taste.

~

The pub became a regular hangout spot for Michael and Gerry after detention. Michael was eager both to forget his hours with Mr. Sannikov and to avoid going back to Harry and Kim’s house, Gerry seemingly had nowhere else to be. He never mentioned anyone expecting him, never mentioned a dad, and his mother was definitely out of the picture. He had mentioned a flat though, so he must’ve lived somewhere.

Michael had started packing his own lunch, which was usually just something pilfered from the fruit bowl and a granola bar, but because he hadn't told Kim this, she was still giving him money every day. So he put it towards paying for drinks.

Michael only ever drank what Gerry ordered for him, which was always enough to get him feeling pleasantly tipsy but not all the way to drunk. It was a nice sort of feeling. Lighter. The heavier thoughts didn’t stick as much. 

He and Gerry would sit at their booth and talk about music and movies and the old games they used to know.

“My mum had an Atari she never played,” Gerry said once, “She’d never let  _ me _ play it either, but I snuck in  _ hours _ of Pac Man. I don’t know if she ever really noticed.” He shrugged, “Or cared.”

“Oh, no way,” Michael laughed, “My mum had an Atari too.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Yeah, we never had Pac Man but we used to play… uh, what’s that one with the, the uh…” Michael snapped his fingers by his ear, trying to remember, “The blue guy with the shovel? And you dig the-”

“Fucking Dig Dug!?” Gerry interrupted loudly, grin on his face.

“Yeah! Yes, yes Dig Dug.” Michael pointed emphatically. “That was…” He tried to think back, “That honestly might’ve been the only game we had. Or at least the only one I wanted to play.”

“Oh Michael,” Gerry shook his head, “I  _ hope  _ it was the only game you had, otherwise you had horrible taste.”

Michael gasped in mock offense, “Dig Dug is a  _ classic _ . Frankly, I question  _ your _ taste, Mr. Pac Man.”

Gerry scoffed, “You cannot seriously be going after Pac Man.”

“It’s basic.” Michael said into his pint, fighting a grin, “The milquetoast of Atari games.”

“Oh yeah?” Gerry leaned across the table, “Name three Atari games.”

Michael held up a finger, “Pac Man,” He started, and over Gerry’s protests said loudly, “Dig  _ fucking  _ Dug, and…” He blanked.

Gerry laughed, and laughed harder when Michael tried to shout over him saying, “I got one I  _ fucking  _ got one, okay?”

He held up a third finger triumphantly. “ _ Ms. _ Pac Man.”

“That’s fucking cheating!” Gerry shouted.

“Is not!” Michael crowed, and basked in Gerry’s mock outrage. In the light feeling in his chest. In the fact that Gerry was in his life at all.

Gerry smiled funny, Michael noticed. Like he wasn’t used to the movement of it, a little crooked and a little toothy. Michael liked it a lot.

“I always wanted an Xbox,” Gerry mused, “I know the PS2 was supposed to be better but I wanted to play Halo.”

Michael said, “Kim got one for me, for my first Christmas.” He hadn’t really used it much. The television was in the living room, and Michael had a hard time being comfortable in any part of that house that wasn’t his bedroom.

“That’s… nice?” Gerry offered. He’d probably gathered at some point that Michael’s relationship with his adoptive parents wasn’t exactly positive.

Michael hummed, “I guess so. She was really into the whole holiday once she found out I’d never celebrated before.” 

It’d been mostly a bust. Michael didn’t buy into the Santa lie and Kim had been put off enough that the whole holiday had been saturated in very strained cheer. You could practically feel the mounting tension radiating from the ‘Michael’s first Christmas’ photos.

Gerry looked confused for a moment, so Michael explained, “I’m Jewish.” And stopped himself before he could say ‘ _ kind of’ _ like he usually did.

It was something Ryan used to joke about. Jew- _ ish _ , he would emphasize, after Michael had tried to explain how weird he felt about it. 

Kim seemed determined to tout his identity around like some kind of status symbol, but at the same time was so insistent that Michael’s first Christmas, first Easter, whatever, was special. She acted like he’d been deprived of something essential, and wanted to make up for it somehow. Yet simultaneously she wouldn’t let him forget it, like she wanted him to be Jewish, but only in name.

Michael felt like he was a confusing mix of  _ too much  _ and  _ too little _ . He knew what he  _ wasn’t _ , but it didn’t feel like he could just exist and be what he was. Not sure he counted, if he hadn’t spoken a word of Hebrew for nearly ten years.

It was too tangled up in memories of his mum. She wasn’t the most orthodox, as far as he could tell, but she’d tried. He remembered taking a bus to her coworker’s house for Passover Seder one year. She barely knew anyone, was clearly uncomfortable the whole time with the way she wouldn’t let go of Michael’s hand, and the few other kids there were at least five years older than him. But she still made him practice the four questions as she brushed lint off his jumper and told him in no uncertain terms that the Seder was meant to be shared with a community, not just the two of them in a lonely house.

It was important to her that he knew where he came from.

And it bothered him when Ryan said that. His ‘J ew-ish’ joke. But Michael hadn’t argued against it, because it sort of felt true. 

Here though, with Gerry, Michael got the feeling being half-assed about things wasn’t going to go appreciated. It was sort of nice, actually. To declare himself as something, and not make any concessions about it. 

It felt brave.

Sometimes, though, if they stayed at the pub a few hours too late, if they ran out of topics to talk about, Michael would hit an introspective streak.

They would reach a certain point in the conversation where all the giddy fuel ran out. And Michael was stuck thinking. He traced the whorls and spirals of the sticky wooden tabletop and asked before he could stop himself, “Why me, Gerry?”

The urge to take it back was strong, and Michael stared steadfast down at the table, hoping Gerry would just ignore the question.

He was quiet for so long, Michael thought Gerry actually had.

Until he said, “What, like - why am I spending time with you?”

Michael put a hand on his jaw as if that would stop it from moving and just hummed a vague response.

Gerry shrugged, “Well, I mean… when I was planning on running away, I really could’ve used a friend. But I didn’t have one at the time. And it-” He frowned out the window, like maybe he wanted to say something else, then locked eyes with Michael, eyebrows drawn. “I thought you could use a friend.”

Michael laughed nervously, “I’m not planning on running away.”

Gerry gave him a disbelieving look, which was odd, because Michael hadn’t even been lying.

“You’ve got an extra pair of shoes in your bag.” Gerry said simply, as if it explained everything.

And maybe it did explain everything. Because Michael’s face began heating up in shame - that Gerry clearly mistook for embarrassment - and his hands began worrying at the button of his jacket in quiet frantic nervousness.

Michael did have an extra pair of shoes in his bag. Along with an extra pair of trousers and a spare shirt and a tide pen and a keychain pocket knife that he’d never used.

It would be better if Gerry thought Michael was planning to run away. It would make him seem much less pathetic than the truth. So Michael said nothing, and waited for Gerry to change the subject.

Which he did, eventually. Sensing the awkwardness in the air he started with a, “So, Mr. Fairchild’s a real character, isn’t he?”

Michael made a noise of agreement, and Gerry began telling a story about the solid week of lessons Mr. Fairchild once dedicated to the colour blue.

The shoes in Michael’s bag were a precaution more than they were a plan. A culmination of his years in primary school, and all the lessons his peers had taught him.

There was a group of kids who’d singled him out. Michael got singled out quite often, never seeming to stop looking the way he did. Too tall, too odd. Other children picked up on the ways he hunched in on himself, the ways he picked at his nails and tugged at his hair and laughed all loud and nasally. They knew it was wrong, somehow. Even before he did.

Bafflingly, his shoes were one of the first things he started getting bullied for. His height made for large feet, and large feet made for large shoes, and he was teased for it. At first only a few times a day. It was primary school, so the nicknames of ‘bigfoot’ and ‘clown’ were about as hurtful as they were creative.

Michael didn’t do much about the teasing, besides duck his head down and pretend it wasn’t happening. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, when things started escalating.

They were stolen a couple times. After Phys Ed, Michael would open his locker to see them missing. The rest of the day he would wear his gym sneakers to class, up until a teacher reprimanded him for breaking the dress code, and he had to explain, amid the amused stares of his classmates, that he had lost his shoes.

He would spend at least an hour after school looking for them. One was always in a different spot than the other. One tossed in a tree, the other clogging a toilet. One in the trash can, one buried in the dirt outside.

He started wearing his same shoes all day, not wanting to give anyone the opportunity. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, when things escalated again.

They did it by the fountain after school. It had taken two of them to hold him down. Another to grab his flailing legs, and another to pry the shoes off his feet.

Then they ran, leaving him lying on the concrete, the leaky fountain soaking his clothes with coppery water.

He walked home barefoot that day. 

The next day, he knew exactly what they had done just by the smell. And the laughter. And the way they all watched as he opened his gym locker to find his shoes again, now filled with dog shit.

Harry and Kim had to buy him six new pairs of shoes that year. Neither were very pleased about it, especially when he kept insisting he was just losing them.

Now, Michael liked to keep an extra pair with him. Just in case. 

Michael didn’t tell Gerry this.

No. It was better that Gerry thought of Michael as an amateur runaway, some kind of kindred spirit. The kind of person who planned an escape rather than suffer through. Someone like Gerry. Rather than someone like Michael.

“Sorry,” Gerry was saying, “That probably sounds… I’m not hanging out with you as like, a favour, or anything. We’re just… friends. I spend time with you because we’re friends.”

Something about the way he said ‘friends’ sounded almost… unsure.

“Okay.” Michael said, attempting a tone that was reassuring, and smiled.

Gerry, mollified, smiled back.

~

The tape recorder felt clumsy and awkward in Michael’s hands. He had hit ‘record’ and then immediately ‘stop’ about five times now, and although his nervousness never abated, it was joined by a familiar exasperation. It was frustrating, being stuck in a body determined to be anxious at every moment. 

He couldn’t think of anything to say. 

For Michael, his issue was almost never the act of  _ speaking _ . It was dealing with the fallout that came afterwards. But most of the time it was like he could open his mouth and the words would spill out on their own.

That wasn’t the case here. With the tape recorder staring him down, the cassette inside probably getting worn out with all the rewinding he was doing.

Michael slumped in his desk chair and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. It used to be one of those popcorn ones, and he would pick out shapes like constellations when he needed to distract himself into falling asleep. But, two years ago, Kim discovered that popcorn ceilings were no longer trendy, and Michael had to spend an excruciating day out with Harry while some contractor came in and scraped all the ceilings smooth.

Now, without any visual interest to keep his attention, Michael’s eyes slid right off and fell to the window at his side. The lilac bush outside was getting overgrown, to the point where he could see the tops of the branches from under the lip of the window. Bright, tiny purple buds were peeking out between the leaves.

Michael preferred lilies. 

“Okay,” He said to himself, trying to focus, and brought the tape recorder up to his face once again. “Just say anything. No one’s listening.” He hit the record button.

And still drew a complete blank.

He stopped it again, rewound, and sighed. He needed  _ something _ . The last time he’d met with Ms. Robinson, she’d asked him if he’d been recording anything. Michael had replied, “Of course,” And had barely begun explaining all the things he’d been confiding in the tapes she’d given him, when she leveled him with a look. 

He could still lie to Ms. Robinson, but she caught him in it more than most.

It was sort of nice, actually. To know she would check him if necessary. She reminded him of a stern grandmother - or at least, what he thought a stern grandmother might be like. A very ‘mind your manners’ kind of affection. But it  _ was _ affection, even if it was wrapped in something a little thorny. And the thorns made it feel more real, somehow, than if it was candy-coated all the way through.

Michael closed his eyes, pressed record once again, and tried to just  _ talk _ . Hoping something might come through.

“How doth the little crocodile,” Michael began quietly, “Improve his shining tail... And pour the waters of the Nile, On every golden scale.”

It was like a memory of a memory, the way he recalled the poem - time moving backwards. He used to whisper it under his breath, like a more convoluted count to ten, when his nerves made his breath catch and his hands shake. He used to recite it while walking to and from school, when his stutter rendered him virtually unable to speak in class, hoping it might help with his enunciation. And then around the house, saying the words just to say them, liking the way they sounded in his ears, back when he lived with his mum. It had felt like something to say, without actually talking.

“How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spread his claws,” Michael continued into the recorder, a wistful kind of smile coming to his lips. “And welcome little fishes in, With gently smiling jaws.”

His mum used to read him stories.

Or rather - just the one.

Michael must’ve been one of those children who latched on to a single story and wanted it told to them over and over and over, never compromising with something else. 

It would make more sense than Michael’s first assumption - that his mum only owned one book.

_ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _ was the kind of story Michael didn’t remember much about. But he had liked the way the words flowed into one another. He had liked the poetically nonsensical nature of the whole story. 

Probably because it had made about as much sense as the world he lived in. It was comforting, to come back to a book that was about a place without reason. So steeped in dreams and poems and riddles.

He repeated the poems ad infinitum, probably driving his mum up the wall. But he couldn’t help saying them, he remembered. The words just kept spilling out, losing all meaning along the way.

“What was the other one,” Michael wondered aloud, “There was another one. About… an old… old Father William.”

His mum used to do the voices, when she would read it to him. A very stern one for the young man, and a very exaggerated rasp for Father William.

“‘You are old, father William,’” She would recite snobbishly, always making Michael laugh at her posh impression, “The young man said, ‘And your hair has become very white; And yet you  _ incessantly _ stand on your head - Do you think, at your age, it is right?”

Then she would slump over, her hair falling into Michael’s face where he sat, delighted, on her lap, and say in an croaking laugh, “‘In my youth,’ father William replied to his son, ‘I feared it might injure the brain; But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again!”

Michael smiled at the memory. He’d memorized it eventually, and would insist that his mum say it with him. He would prompt her with the ‘You are old, father William!’ and if she was feeling in a particularly good mood she would help him act out the whole thing. 

And then, when it came to the last verse, Michael would chant without meter or rhyme; “You are old, one would hardly suppose that your eye was as steady as ever, yet you balanced an  _ eel _ on the end of your nose! What made you so awfully clever?” 

And his mum would reply with drama and a grin, “I have answered your questions! And that is enough, don’t go and give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!” On the last line, she would move to give chase, and Michael would scramble away, shrieking with delight. 

Of course, there were other days when his mum was not in a particularly good mood, and didn’t want to play along.

But Michael didn’t dwell on those. Instead, he raised the recorder again, despite the minutes of dead air he had just committed to tape, and began. 

“‘You are old, father William,’ the young man said, ‘ And your hair has become very white...”

~

Jonathan Sims came back to class a few weeks after Michael started at the Magnus Institute. Michael had never seen Jonathan Sims, but identified him easily by the thick bandage that engulfed his right hand, making a useless lump of the digits there. Michael hoped, for Jon’s sake, that he wasn’t right handed.

Of course, Jon might have subscribed to the Michael Shelley note-taking strategy, which included taking absolutely none at all and spacing out during class. Though, judging from his stuffy pressed uniform and permanently wound up expression, Michael didn’t think that was the case.

Martin Blackwood - the kid who sat in front of Michael, who took frantic notes during English class but struggled to stay awake during just about every other - began fussing over Jon immediately. As soon as Jon had sat down beside him, Martin started making concerned noises, asking what happened, how he could help, offering to take his notes for him.

Michael didn’t pay very much attention to the interaction, listening only with half an ear, until the very end.

The very end; where Jon brushed Martin off, snooty and irritable, and Martin retreated to his end of the desk, guilty and apologetic.

Michael looked between the two, baffled.

Jonathan Sims was already dead last in the student body pecking order, as evidenced by one hand burnt to a crisp, and the girl who’d done it having gotten off scot free.

So what was so wrong with Martin Blackwood that even  _ Jonathan Sims  _ wanted nothing to do with him?

Martin had seemed like every other unremarkable social outcast Michael had ever seen. The hunched shoulders and quiet voice and nervous demeanor and everything was just… bog standard, down to the utter lack of self-esteem. He was never seriously bullied, besides the occasional remark or prank. Most of the time he just faded into the background.

But there must’ve been something wrong with him. 

There must’ve been.

Michael found himself paying attention to Martin Blackwood much more than he had before. 

“He’s so  _ pathetic _ ,” Michael found himself saying to Mr. Sannikov during detention one day. He wasn’t even sure how they’d gotten on this topic, just that Mr. Sannikov seemed eager to listen and Michael was eager to vent. “Like he  _ knows _ exactly how much people can’t stand him, but he keeps begging them for attention anyway.”

Mr. Sannikov shook his head a little in disappointed agreement, “It’s a classic case of self-inflicted victimhood.” He said, “Instead of doing anything to change his behavior, your classmate is determined to make people take him as he is, as if they should want it.”

“Yes, exactly!” Michael was pacing Mr. Sannikov’s classroom, roaming up and down the empty desks like something in a cage, “He’s just so - ‘look at me, I’m so miserable’- as if he wants everyone else to feel  _ bad _ for him or something.”

At least when Michael was miserable he kept it to himself.

At least when Michael was an embarrassment, he didn’t make it anyone else's problem.

On some level he knew it was petty. That he shouldn’t be so furious about Martin Blackwood being so annoying. But it felt good to get it all out there. Like a release.

It helped that Mr. Sannikov agreed with him, too.

It helped Michael ignore the root of the thing, unlike Ms. Robinson, who seemed to want to dig it out of him when he brought it up with her.

“He knows how awful he is,” Michael said to her, derailing her askance about the tape recorders, “And he cares, obviously, but he wants everyone else not to, you know? As if other people aren’t going to judge him in the same way.”

Ms. Robinson considered this, thoughtful behind her spectacles.

“And why do his actions bother you so much?” She asked, not unkindly, but precisely all the same.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Michael replied, trying to stay out of the introspection she was visibly guiding him towards, “It’s his fault, but he’s trying to pretend like it’s not. He’s just playing the victim, and worse than that it’s so  _ obvious _ .”

Ms. Robinson wasn’t having any of that though, and kept trying to prompt Michael into a sort of self-reflection technique. It bothered him. Put him on the defensive.

He stuck to ranting with Mr. Sannikov after that.

And still Michael spent ages and ages in class with Martin Blackwood, stuck behind him, seething and watching and  _ hating _ every little noise that came out of his mouth. 

Martin Blackwood was spineless, and annoying, and pathetic.

But worst of all he was  _ good _ .

No matter what anyone did to him, Martin kept offering pencils to Jonathan Sims. Kept feeding the stray dog outside of school. Kept speaking up about the things he liked, the things he thought, as if they mattered to anyone.

It’s not like the bullying didn’t  _ bother  _ Martin. He was visibly upset when other students called him names in passing. His expression fell when he found Jane Prentiss had snuck her worms into his bag again, leaving their dead slimy corpses all over his school work. It wasn’t like Martin didn’t  _ mind _ . He was so obviously crestfallen every time it happened. 

But somehow, despite it all, he was so  _ nice _ .

Michael was not nice. He was nervous, sure. Worried about judgement, about bullies, about all number of things. And the few things he wasn’t nervous about, he’d dropped all facades of caring about entirely.

But he was not  _ nice _ .

And it was the one thing about Martin Blackwood that Michael would never admit to Ms. Robinson, would never seethe about to Mr. Sannikov.

It burned too much like envy.

Michael never spoke to Martin, never made himself known. He’d be surprised, honestly, if Martin was even aware of Michael at all.

Then, there was the English class where Michael couldn’t keep himself unnoticed if he tried. 

They were talking about something Shakespeare. Michael wasn’t sure. He hadn’t touched the assigned reading book, and hadn’t been paying attention during the parts they read through in class. The whole thing was nonsense to his ears, so he let it wash over him and let his mind drift as he waited for the end of class.

That was, until Martin Blackwood decided to raise his hand.

“I think they can be good, actually. Tragedies.” He said. There were the token muffled snickers about the classroom that seemed to start up every time Martin began speaking. Martin powered through, raising his voice just slightly even though it shook a little at the beginning. Even as Jonathan Sims beside him rolled his eyes.

“You know,” Martin continued, “They can be cathartic for people, witnessing another person’s suffering. And because it’s a play it’s a… a sort of safe space, to explore like, grief, without it being too real to bear.”

The snickers came again, as if Martin was spouting utter dogshit.

But their teacher seemed pleased by this, and said, “No yes, that’s very mature of you to pick up on that Martin. Does anyone want to elaborate on that?”

And Michael was so angry he almost couldn’t breathe.

Tragedies. Tragedies weren’t  _ good _ for anyone. Definitionally. The idea that they could help at all was laughable, was ridiculous.

People had been looking at Michael like he was a tragedy his entire life. 

There was nothing cathartic in it.

There was nothing  _ good _ to be found in the pitying glances and gentle tones of people who ‘just wanted to help’. Nothing  _ safe _ about being exposed, constantly, like your whole life is just a vicarious tale for other people to take in and wince and move on, back to their own lives.

Michael didn’t realize until a few seconds in that he was laughing near-hysterically.

Mostly because Martin Blackwood had swiveled in his chair and given him a look of utter confusion, and the look on his face was so hilarious Michael couldn’t help laughing  _ more _ .

“Michael?” The teacher sounded concerned, and it made Michael want to bare his teeth. Not in a smile, but in a grimace. Still, a smile was what bloomed on his face anyway. “Something to add?”

Michael couldn’t get any words out around the giggles, each time he sucked in a breath he would devolve once again, nearly falling out of his chair.

He ended up having to leave the classroom to calm down.

It was around halfway to the door that Michael realized that this was actually very bad. And with the laughter fading into only the occasional breathy chuckle, Michael felt the dread begin to press in.

He wasn’t imagining the weird looks after that, he knew. Most of the time he could convince himself it was just his nerves, making him think people were watching him, but there was no way he could deny this.

Students looked at him, then looked to their friends, and started whispering, intercut with quiet little giggles. Mean little snickers.

Michael tried to keep his head down, but he’d already damaged everything enough. They all thought there was something wrong with him, after that. They all thought he was  _ crazy _ after that. And he couldn’t fool himself into thinking they weren’t judging him.

Michael hated their staring, hated his outburst in the first place. He wished he could take it back somehow, wished he could shut himself up like a telescope.

Most of all, there was Martin Blackwood, suddenly aware of Michael’s existence.

“Are you alright?” he’d asked once, pitying and concerned and quiet, turning that slight bit of distance to face Michael sat behind him. Michael understood, then, how Jonathan Sims must feel to be pitied by Martin Blackwood.

It made Michael feel lower than dirt.

And it made Michael hate Martin even more.

The only way he could think to get past it was to pretend it never happened, try to keep his mind from touching it.

This was usually only achievable when he spent time with Gerry.

"What is that?" Gerry asked, walking beside Michael with that quick no-nonsense pace of his. Michael was pulled out of his head by the question.

"What's what?"

"That thing you say sometimes. About the crocodile."

Michael felt his cheeks heat with embarrassment, he hadn’t realized he’d been talking out loud, much less that the old poem had crept into his nonsensical murmurings. 

"Oh, it's uh." he said something that was not-quite-a-lie, which happened more often than he would like. "I used to stutter a lot when I was a kid. So my speech therapist gave me things to practice."

Michael had never been to a speech therapist, but it seemed more legitimate than some crock about his favourite children’s story.

“Okay,” Gerry said, easily accepting whatever answer Michael gave, and adjusted the bag slipping off his shoulder.

They passed by a group of students, who gave Michael and Gerry a wide berth, whispering amongst themselves. Michael wished they’d put in more of an effort to pretend like they weren’t talking about him.

“So I hear you thought the end of Hamlet was a laugh riot.” Gerry said suddenly, “You know, the bit where everyone dies horribly.”

He was joking, Michael knew. But still something in Michael’s stomach dropped at the knowledge that somehow, his outburst in class had spread far enough along the gossip chain that even Gerry - pinnacle of asocial behavior that he was - knew about it. Everyone must think Michael was insane. That there was something wrong with him.

“Oh, hysterical.” Michael agreed, attempted sarcasm forever buried beneath his inability to sound anything but sincere. “Plays out like a comedy routine, honestly.”

“I thought the comedies were the ones with the weddings at the end.” Gerry said.

Michael decided to push through with this complaining about Shakespeare, try to get the attention off of himself. So he was jittery and perhaps a bit desperate when he said, “Hamlet is the most useless protagonist I’ve ever had the misfortune of tuning out,” Michael tried to remember the things he gleaned purely through osmosis in the English classroom, “Instead of going after his father’s murderer he spends the entire play just  _ thinking _ about it and distracting himself. Meanwhile Sleighmaker is still out there, probably committing more murders.”

“Uh,” Gerry said, confused. “You mean Claudius?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Michael waved a hand, heart pounding, “Honestly by the time the thing is finally over he deserved what he got. The best character in the show is Ophelia, she just gives people flowers and then drowns. She doesn’t have to deal with all that mess in act five. If I could be anyone in Hamlet, I’d pick her.”

Gerry grimaced, “I’d rather go out like Horatio and live to tell the tale. Drowning sounds like it would be the worst way to die - long and slow and painful.”

“Drowning isn't so bad.” Michael said before he could stop himself.

The comment provoked a surprised laugh out of Gerry. “What?” He asked, like he wanted Michael to explain the joke.

“Anyway,” Michael said instead, trying to mask how obviously he was changing the subject, “Shakespeare was a hack, and by rights Hamlet should’ve been killed off in act one. Pub?”

Gerry hesitated for just a moment, like he knew Michael was avoiding something, but instead of pushing he just shrugged and said, “Yeah, okay.”

Michael exhaled in relief.

~

They kept to themselves when they drank. Michael wasn’t the type to go out and talk to people on his own, and Gerry had firmly established something of a jaded loner routine.

But, on occasion, various inebriated people came to approach them. Some drunk people turned out to be very social creatures.

There was the occasional invitation to join a pool game, a couple people felt the need to comment on Gerry’s preferred style of dress, and there were a few questions - some from the waitstaff, weirdly - who were oddly invested in the nature of their relationship.

Michael didn’t like it much, when it happened. It only served to remind him that this little bubble he and Gerry had carved out for themselves wasn’t impermeable.

There was one group though, that was kind of fun. Mostly because they were all so clearly self involved, that there was absolutely no judgement passed Gerry or Michael’s way. A gaggle of 20-somethings - probably university students, if Michael had to guess - who came in on Fridays. They were all - in turns - very loud at the pool table, very loud at the bar, or very loud in a booth.

At some point, during one of the pool table rotations, one of the girls broke off from the group and headed towards Gerry and Michael’s booth. She was on the shorter side, with hair so yellow it couldn’t have been anything but dyed.

“Hi, excuse me, sorry,” She began, holding up her phone, “Would one of you take a picture of us?”

“Sure!” Michael said, finding his filter all but dissolved once he’d had two pints. He addressed Gerry, who was looking on with an amused expression, “Be right back.”

Michael was not very good at taking photos, he didn’t have much practice, but he figured the dimness of the bar lights would help mask whatever amateurish mistakes he was about to make.

Part of the reason he liked coming here with Gerry was his amateurish mistakes stopped seeming like the mountainous ordeals that they felt like when he was sober.

The university students all got together to pose beside the pool table, one of the guys holding up a cue stick like a trophy. Michael told them to say cheese, and snapped a couple photos for good measure, hoping one of them would be salvageable.

The girl bounced up to him to retrieve her phone, and it was a little bit comical how tiny she was in comparison to Michael’s bony limbs. But, she said, his height made for a better angle, or something.

“Thanks so much,” She smiled, and glanced over to where Gerry was watching them from across the pub, “You two are really cute together by the way. Like, it doesn’t seem like it should work, but it totally does.”

“Haha, what?” Michael said stupidly, his brain not quite catching up with what she was implying. But she had already gone back to her friends with a cheery wave, and Michael was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the pub.

He hurried back over to Gerry, trying to get the words she’d said out of his brain. He didn’t know why it affected him so much. People implied he and Gerry were together all the time. 

They’d just never said it like it could be a  _ good _ thing until now.

He was probably blushing a little once he sat back down at the booth, but hoped Gerry would brush it off as an effect of the alcohol.

Michael didn’t need to worry though, as it turned out. Gerry was staring out the window, chin in his hand, looking deep in thought.

“You’re pretty good at that.” he said vaguely.

“Haha, what?” Michael said for the second time that night, equally as stupid.

“You know,” Gerry said, even though Michael definitely did not know, “Talking to people. Socializing. Making friends.”

It was almost laughable. Michael wasn’t good at much of anything, but on the short list of things he  _ was _ good at, ‘socializing’ definitely didn’t make the cut. There was a reason Michael only had one friend his whole life, and it wasn’t because he was too cool.

Michael was good at  _ pretending  _ to be a person who was good at socializing. But after one lie too many, eventually people realized he was dishonest, untrustworthy, deceitful, and in general, not very nice.

The threshold for people’s patience with him usually averaged about fifteen minutes. Making Gerry a complete anomaly.

So Michael just laughed a little at the statement and didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry, that people are avoiding you now.” Gerry said, apparently possessing the ability to address the exact thing Michael was trying not to think about. But then, inexplicably, Gerry followed it up with, “I know it’s my fault.”

“What?” asked Michael, confused. Gerry had nothing to do with Michael’s stupid emotional reactions to a random classmate he hated. Gerry hadn’t even been there.

But he kept talking nonsense, “If you want to, like, get rid of me or whatever… I get it. You know, to keep your options open.”

Michael frowned, trying to figure out what Gerry was getting at, “You want me to leave?”

Gerry stared at him for a long moment, like he had an answer he wanted to say but was trying to think of a better way to say it.

“Not if you don’t want to.” He settled on finally.

“Well, I don’t. Want to.” Michael stammered, hoping this wasn’t Gerry’s polite way of telling him to fuck off. “You know they’d avoid me anyway.”

Gerry snorted at that, like he didn’t believe it. 

“Sure.” He said, even though he obviously didn’t agree.

“Oh, but haven’t you heard?” Michael asked, forcing his tone into something lighthearted, cramming his words into a joke, “I’m  _ mad _ .”

“Well if you’re mad,” Gerry said, raising his pint for Michael to cheers, “I’m fucking nuts.”

Michael laughed, and clinked their glasses together.

~

“You know he killed his mum, right?”

Michael didn’t think the words were meant for him until his arm was physically grabbed. He stumbled, looked back, and came face to face with Julia Montauk.

He didn’t think she would seek him out specifically. Not when most of her issues seemed to be with Gerry. Not in the middle of the hallway, after detention, when everyone else had gone home. Had she been waiting for him? What did she want?

A noise came out of Michael’s throat that must’ve sounded appropriately confused and slightly terrified, because Julia regarded him with disdain.

“Your boyfriend.” She clarified, “That emo cunt, Gerard Keay. He killed his mum.”

Michael’s stomach had very suddenly turned to ice. “What?” Was the only response he could formulate. 

Julia continued with a bored expression.

“Just thought you ought to know,” She said flippantly, taking her hand off his arm, shaking it out a little like she was ridding herself of him, “Before he chops you into pieces like he did her.”

It took a few moments, admittedly, for Michael to fully process what exactly she was saying. It was so absurd, so out of nowhere.

“H-his mum killed herself.” Michael stuttered out. He didn’t want to think about dead people. He didn’t like talking about dead people. Talking about dead people made him think about Ryan. And thinking about Ryan never ended well.

“Is that what he told you?” Julia sneered, “Of course he did.”

The concept that Gerry might’ve lied to him had never crossed Michael’s mind. It often didn’t. Michael was so frequently the one lying he forgot occasionally that other people could too. 

Ryan had lied to Michael, a lot. And Michael hadn’t caught it in time, and Ryan had ended up dead. He had to remember that.

But Gerry was nice, he wasn’t a murderer. Michael would know if he was a murderer, right?

Michael remembered that first time in the pub. Feeling like an idiot for lying about his mum being dead. Feeling even worse when Gerry started opening up. 

Michael stumbled over something like, “She-she killed hers-”

“Nah,” Julia interrupted, “That’s why he’s here - didn’t you know? They found him all covered in blood and his mum all in pieces, and after the trial no other school would take him. Should’ve gone away for life if you ask me. I heard his mum was a bitch, but nobody deserves something like that.”

“But he - but-” Michael searched.

“B-b-b- _ christ _ shut up.” Julia mocked, “I can see why he chose you. Nervous fucking twig. Keay must’ve gotten all excited when he saw just how much skin you’ve got. He likes to peel it off, y’know.”

“I-if he’s not in prison,” Michael said quickly, perhaps a little desperately, “If he’s not in prison he’s - he’s not guilty. Right?”

“Some piece of evidence was ‘inadmissible’ or something.” Julia scoffed. “He’s “not guilty”, sure. But he’s not  _ not _ guilty.”

“I-” Michael blinked hard, trying hard not to think about Ryan, “Why are you telling me this?”

Julia shrugged, “Figured you deserved a warning before he tried to cut your face off. Me and Hopworth have a deal to keep the little shit in line, but we don’t keep track of him outside of school. Who knows what he gets up to.”

Michael tried to think, but all his mind was supplying was Ryan. Ryan and a dark night. Something coming at him from the shadows. “You’re lying.” He said, and wasn’t that strange? To be the person who said it instead of the person it was said to.

“You can look it up if you want.” Julia said, unbothered, “Doesn’t matter to me. It’s your own skin on the line, literally. Just thought you deserved to know a little more about your guardian angel before he gets you thinking there’s  _ any  _ good eggs in this particular basket.” She gave him a little salute before stepping away down the hall, “Good luck, Shelley. You’re going to need it.”

And Michael was left standing there, unable to think.

Gerry wasn’t a murderer. He couldn’t be. He was so  _ nice _ \- but wasn’t that what they said about all murderers?  _ He was always so nice. _

Michael closed his eyes, trying to breathe, but his lungs weren’t working. They didn’t even feel like they were  _ there _ anymore. And all he could think of was Ryan and his sarcastic snaggle-toothed grin. His lisp and his twitchy hands and the way that smile could turn sour in an instant. The way his eyes had grown heavy over those last few weeks. The obsessiveness with which he checked his phone. Every few minutes he would pull the thing out, refresh a chat, waiting, waiting.

“Who are you waiting for?” Michael had asked. Michael was asking. Had he spoken out loud?

Michael was waiting for Ryan. He had been waiting for Ryan for two hours. He knew because he kept checking his phone, because it was cold and because he was scared, and he couldn’t see anything beyond the dim circle of streetlight. Ryan was meeting someone, and he wanted Michael to come with him. He was meeting someone, but he didn’t want Michael to come with him the whole way. He’d been gone for such a long time.

“Who are you waiting for?” Michael asked again, and Ryan had given him a look of such furious annoyance. Like Michael was a fly that wouldn’t stop flitting about his head.

Michael fumbled for his phone, wanting to check the time again - he’d been waiting for two hours - but also to -

His fingers shook as he typed in a messy ‘ _ geard kaey’  _ into the search bar. He had to backspace and type it again, this time with the city name attached to the end. She was lying. She was  _ lying _ , she had to be. Gerry was his friend. 

The results came up.

‘Beyond recognition’ the articles described. They used words like ‘gruesome’, descriptors like ‘flayed’. And Julia’s voice kept ringing incessantly in Michael’s head.  _ “He likes to peel it off, y’know?” _

They wouldn’t let Michael see Ryan’s body, once they’d found it. But he saw Ryan’s mum’s face when she stepped out of the morgue. He saw the closed casket at the funeral. He could guess.

And Ryan had always been checking his phone, which Michael had thought was odd at the time. Because they were the only ones who texted each other. But more and more Ryan had been hiding his screen, holding his phone under his desk to type out responses to this new person. This new secret friend Michael wasn’t allowed to know about.

He just kept looking at it. Waiting.

And then he ended up dead.

Michael was realizing, even though they'd been hanging out for weeks, Gerry had never given Michael his number.

“Who are you waiting for-”

“Michael?” Gerry was there so suddenly Michael had to blink to get his bearings. A hand was in his face, snapping as if to get him out of a trance. “Michael, are you okay?”

“What?” Michael said, feeling very far away.

“Are you okay?” Gerry said again. The hallway was still very empty, but now also very quiet. Classes must’ve ended a while ago. Michael hadn't come to meet Gerry behind the school.

Gerry had a knife, Michael remembered. He had a knife that he used to get doors open, by jamming it into the keyhole with brute force.

_ “He likes to peel it off, y'know?” _

Michael had seen Ryan’s mum’s face when she came out of the morgue. He’d seen the closed casket at the funeral.

_ ‘Beyond recognition’ _

“I’m okay.” Michael said, and his mouth twitched unconsciously up into a smile. His face felt numb. Like he’d been standing in the cold for hours. “Sorry, just spaced out for a second. Am I late?”

Gerry gave him an odd look. Or maybe a calculating one. Michael didn’t know anymore.

“Are you  _ sure  _ you’re okay?” Gerry said slowly.

Michael looked at him, tried to picture him in a room with a dead body. Tried to picture him with his dead mother, who Michael could only envision as the passport photo they had attached to the article - a twitch of annoyance on her otherwise blank expression.

She’d looked like Gerry. A pointed chin and thin lips and drawn eyebrows. Michael tried to recall that woman and tried to picture her killing herself. Tried to picture Gerry killing her instead.

Michael realized, with some horror, that he’d sort of been picturing his own mother as Gerry’s. Back before he’d seen Mary Keay’s shaved and tattooed and  _ angry _ features. He’d pictured Gerry walking into a bathroom to see a woman with gold ringlets in her hair, fully clothed and dead in the bathtub.

Why did he think Gerry’s mother would be anything like his own? It was stupid to think it. It was a terrible thing to picture his own mother dead in a bathtub.

Why did he think Gerry’s mother had killed herself in a bathtub?

Gerry’s mother was not like Michael’s mother. She was sharp and angry and possibly suicidal. Michael’s mother was soft, in his memories. Soft hair and soft hands and soft words. She’d held his shoulders when he couldn’t breathe, once. She held her soft hands to his small shoulders and held him down when he couldn’t breathe, and her features were soft and distorted from under the water, fractalling into new shapes.

“I think everything’s sort of the same.” Michael said, not even sure what he was saying. “But it’s like colours - they’re different for everyone. Y’know colour doesn’t exist in the universe? It’s all in your brain.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gerry sounded genuinely concerned.

“Did she kill herself in a bathtub?” Michael asked suddenly, and Gerry’s expression started changing so fast Michael couldn’t identify exactly where it was headed. “Nevermind. Sorry.”

“What?” Gerry asked, and it was sort of hoarse, the way he breathed it.

“You’re right. I think I need to go home.” Michael said, as if Gerry had actually suggested anything like that. “Sleep this off. Bye, Gerry.”

And Michael turned around to walk in a direction. Any direction. He felt so far away he couldn’t feel his legs move. Couldn’t hear his shoes hit the floor. Everything sounded like it was underwater. Everything felt like drowning.

The car ride to the house was nothing. Faint noises and passing shapes. The house itself was white and stagnant and sterile and the dinner tasted like something microwaved for an hour. It buzzed on Michael’s tongue.

He hit the surface of his bed and it felt like breaking the surface of the water for only a brief moment. He sucked in a breath like he was dying, and went back under again when he checked his phone.

He started reading articles. Reading them again and again. They all seemed to think Gerry had done it.

“No one could’ve done that to themselves.” Michael read what the interviewed police officer had said to the reporters. “No one could’ve gotten that far, at least.”

Michael read and reread the articles until the sun set and his eyes started to burn. Then, his screen went black, and with one violent buzz, his phone died.

He fell asleep to the thought that lies weren’t very much fun when they were happening to you.


End file.
